


Die Like A Hero Going Home

by fabricdragon



Series: Vampire Shuffle [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Dracula Influence/References, F/M, Fencing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Vampire Hunters, Vampire John, World of Darkness, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9871976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/pseuds/fabricdragon
Summary: Only a handful of people know vampires exist in this age, and the pace of change is such that most of the truly old have long gone to sleep, or died the last death.  John Watson is heading home to London to die, until he finds something to live for.





	1. Going Home

Ioahnnes was tired. Nothing was interesting anymore. Even war, even war in his old familiar places, didn’t bring him out of his depression. He’d slept too long, these last times, and woken each time to a world changed beyond all imagining. The only place that was familiar was the country now called Afghanistan, and even they… were a shadow of their past.

All their treasures and their sculpture were gone, the great cities cast down… it was depressing.

After a brief look at the wars which perpetually raged across what people now called the Middle East– _Their weapons would kill even him, now–_ and a wistful sigh at Rome, he’d gone home to Londinium–London. It had been London for centuries, long enough to have myths and legends deemed ancient by its denizens that were long after his time.

He made his way back to the land of his first birth. He had been truly BORN when his last breath stilled in the night, during an ambush in a land now called Iraq... at least he thought so–the borders changed so frequently…

But his mortal lands were now called England, and London held some sentiment… and he didn’t want to meet his final death in the sand and the heat.

His kind were known, more or less: no longer as horror stories; as demons around the evening’s tales; or as warnings to not stray abroad after dark… No, they had been tales told to enthrall even the last time he woke, when Queen Victoria sat upon the throne. Tales of evening clothes and nobles, and dark, dangerous, and wanton men and women with pale skin.

It had been good to have a Queen again. Elizabeth had been less pleasant in her reign, but the country prospered. There was another Queen Elizabeth now, as well, although he wasn’t certain for how much longer.

There were fewer of his people now. The pace of change was dizzying, and his siblings had found their ends long ago, save for Harriet. Harriet met him when he came back to London, and offered him her hearth, and to prey on her herd. She kept a tavern, as she had so often, and her eyes were hazy from the drunken sots she fed on. He couldn’t blame her–it numbed the pain. She pressed a marvel onto him: he’d seen telephones at their beginning, and again–but this! You could send a letter at a press of a button and speak with people across the world.

He contacted the solicitors, who went about their business as they always did. When all the rest of his kind were ashes, he suspected the lawyers and solicitors would continue on sheltered in their papers.

He got a small flat. He didn’t need much, just a place to stay while he took his last wanderings around.

Most of the others he met –and he avoided most of them– were young, so young. He supposed they had to be, to keep up with this dizzying speed. They couldn’t yet stand the daylight, and they needed so often. One of the fledging creatures introduced him, though, to bagged blood, and while it never would be the same as blood from a warm body, he was a soldier: rations that kept, and could be transported, were better than none; and he could spend his time wandering old places, and learning the new.

He forgot how tenacious humans could be. Marcus?–no, Michael– was a veterans liaison, and took it upon himself to help all the veterans he could. He insisted “John” come meet a friend he could share a flat with. He let himself be taken to their hospitals–marvels really, and no one appreciated the medicine anymore– and there was the IMAGE of the new young breed.

Tall, pale, devastatingly young and attractive looking. His clothing was more old-fashioned than most, so Iohannes assumed he was a at least not newly released from his sire. His eyes were the piercing stare that Iohannes had had to learn to hide, to pass among humans… in this era the young hadn’t had to learn it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” He must have been turned for his voice and his looks alone.

“I beg your pardon?”

And then to hear it all laid out, barely keeping to the human turns of phrase… Whoever this beautiful childe was, he was brilliant. His sire must be one of the powers of the new age to have such a creature…

Maybe it was worth putting off his death, just for a while… to see what this new era had in store.

And with that he was moving in with Sherlock Holmes.

He didn’t even try to hide himself as a normal human, keeping a skull on the mantle, and various body parts and bagged blood in the cooler. But in this era he could excuse it all with ‘experiments’. Iohannes–John–looked around again: in some ages, he would have been a noted scholar; in others, a wizard; in this? A peculiar detective.

“Brilliant,” John Watson said again, staring around the flat. It seemed a small bit of color was creeping back into his life, away from the boring beige and sand. Come to that, even the flat he’d had before had been sand colored.

Mrs. Hudson was a human, but obviously fond of Sherlock, and not controlled, so likely from what he said: freeing a woman from a bad husband would gain you a lifetime of gratitude in most eras.

He was standing, as he had come to do in his age, thinking, when Sherlock spoke up. “You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.”

“Yes.” _I was; I am; I suppose still–although, if I was going to stay in this time, I would have much to catch up on._

 “Any good?”

 “Very good, at least in combat.”

 “Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.” The fledging was looking at him, pale eyes blazing.

 “Well, yes.”

 “Bit of trouble too, I bet?”

 “Of course. Yes. Enough... for a lifetime, far too much.” _And the endless dusty wars, and the pointless days._

 Sherlock Holmes smirked. “Want to see some more?”

 And he’d had too much of sand and beige, and for a few days at least would have blood and fire and blackness. “Oh God, yes.”

The police looked at Sherlock as if they suspected. The senior officer, Lestrade, clearly had some fond affection for him, but kept looking at him as if he was fragile. _How odd._ The woman, Donovan, clearly hated him, as did Anderson.

“Freak,” Donovan muttered, staring after him.

There was the smell of death, and violence… Sherlock seemed almost unaffected by it. As John was called to work with him, he smelled it… human, warm life and violin rosin and chemicals… how could he smell so mortal? It had been a long, long time since he’d spent time with such a fledgling– did they all smell like this?

Donovan pulled John aside.

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand, being a civilian–“

“I’m not.”

“What?” She looked annoyed at being interrupted.

“A civilian. I just got back from Afghanistan.”

“I thought you were a doctor?”

“Military doctor.” He smiled. She smelled like gunpowder, Anderson’s deodorant, and stale coffee.

“Look, he’s not safe. One of these days, we’ll find a corpse that he put there: I don’t want it to be yours.” She sounded sincere.

“I don’t think I’m in any danger from him.” He smiled and walked away. He staggered and almost tripped, however, when he heard her mutter to Anderson, “How long did he spend in sunlight and how–”

 _Interesting. Hunters? And after me? Or Sherlock?_ He resolved to watch them more carefully.

And soon enough he was being swept along again, the dizzying pace that Sherlock set making his military heart sing with excitement.

And it was daylight, and Sherlock was taking such chances! He couldn’t be old enough to use any abilities while the sun was up!…the whispered suspicion of _mortal? Human?_ John shook his head and thought, _IF he was mortal, then this could kill him– if he wasn’t, then this would expose him._ He drew his pistol and fired.

John came down and moved slowly through the police, Sherlock sitting wrapped in a blanket, talking to that detective.

 

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of a weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimated to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and...” He looked at me. “Nerves of steel...”

 _What would he say, I wonder_? He fell back on the excuse of shock, but kept staring at him whenever the detective wasn’t looking. John pulled him away.

They laughed, really laughed, over some of it and John leaned in and… Yes, the pulse was there, and even in daylight at this range he could smell sweat, and warm life.

Pale, beautiful, brilliant… and human.

_Now this… was interesting._

 


	2. Francis Walsingham

He didn’t have a chance to speak to Sherlock again, or get back to the flat, before a dark car swept up beside him.  It was nothing new, this: in another era it would have been a coach, or a palanquin, or a brace of men. John was beginning to be intrigued by life again, for the first time in so long.  He smiled and got into the car.

A maidservant–but not a bedwarmer, sent to tempt and coax– sat in the car.  John tried to speak to her and got treated with amused dismissal.  He wondered if she chose Anthea or it was chosen for her? It was comforting to hear an old familiar name in this era _.  I wonder if her master is known to me, or even knows what I am? He must, I suppose._

They drove to a distant place.  Nothing new again, although John wondered if it would be threats or death that he faced.

 _Mortal._   The man had the same sharpened gaze as Sherlock, and he was mortal too.  He held his umbrella like a weapon, and John smiled as he remembered the lessons in baritsu from the last time he walked in London.

He realized his mind had wandered, and he looked back with a smile at the man.

“You don’t seem to be very threatened by me,” the man said, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t seem very threatening,” John said gently _.  So this was the spymaster of this age? Whatever had I done to come to his attention?_

“Most people have more sense.” The man looked thoughtfully at him.

“I have a lot of sense. I haven’t done anything, so it’s not about me… the most unusual person I’ve been near is Sherlock Holmes, so it’s likely about him.” John smiled as the man’s fingers twitched on the umbrella.

“So tell me, Walsingham, what treason do you suspect, and how much were you going to offer me to spy on him.” John let his smile grow a bit. “I’ll say no, you understand, but I admit of curiosity…”

The man’s expression flickered briefly at the name John used, then he nodded slowly. “You surprise me.”

“It’s a survival trait,” John said calmly, “and I study history. So?”

“I was indeed going to offer you money to spy on him.”

“He’s no traitor.  I haven’t lived with him for more than a few hours, and even I know that.”

“Oh?” The man was amused, but… _No, this was about something else_. “What makes you so certain?”

“I can’t picture him paying enough attention to politics to be anything but an unwitting traitor.  If you told me he talked to the wrong people I would believe you.” He nodded politely, “But no, it’s not that, is it? That’s the usual reason, but not this time.” He shrugged and looked around, “So why bring me to a place of execution and try to bribe me if it’s not that?”

“You truly aren’t afraid? I wonder why?”

“I came home to London intending to die, Walsingham,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen too much, and it lives inside of me. I spent the last few days–“

“Weeks, we’ve been trying to track you once you came to my attention.”

He shrugged, “Days, weeks, whatever.  I just wanted to see London a bit, to come home before I died. I didn’t want to die in Afghanistan.” _Again, perhaps_.

The man looked a bit stunned. “You’re telling the truth.”

“Why lie?”

“Then…” he frowned. “Something changed.”

John nodded. “Sherlock.  It’s been…“ he smirked as he chose the words, “less dull? Less tedious? Although I admit I wasn’t expecting to be swept up in spy business over it.”

“There are things you don’t understand.”

“Probably, but I might.”

“Are you aware that there are things most people would suspect are myths?”

“You mean like black cars picking army doctors up from the sidewalk and taking them off to disappear?” John asked.

“No,” but he smirked as he said it. “Like vampires.”

John couldn’t help it, he laughed.

The man frowned, “I’m quite serious.”

“So was Donovan.”

He paled. “What?”

“Donovan asked how long ‘he had been out in the sun’, when she thought I couldn’t hear.  She also tried to warn me that Sherlock might kill me, so I assume she thinks he’s a vampire… do you?”

The man stared at him, and slowly sat down. “I know he is not, in fact, but she would not be the first to make that error.” The man looked at him again, and John watched him counting John’s breaths, and smiled at the benefits of long habits, from when hunters were more common.

“He has the look.  I thought he was myself, for a short time.” John smiled politely. “So?”

“You know vampires exist; you know they can be out in daylight.  How?”

“I encountered my first vampire in Afghanistan,” John said, and his eyes lost focus without his intent as he remembered bleeding to death in the dust and sand, and the horrible hunger that followed. He realized the man was speaking and shook himself. “My apologies, I lost–“

“I’ve seen it before,” he said, his voice was gentler than it had been.

“So what do YOU know, then, Walsingham?” he smiled again, and watched the shadows lengthen. “And it will be dark soon–we’re already in shadow– and if there are vampires in London as there are in Afghanistan, an abandoned warehouse is a poor place to wait.”

“I carry a sword,” the man said flatly, “and all my men are armed with enough firepower to at least slow one down.”

“Ah, the umbrella? Clever, that,” John nodded. “I’ll have to get one for my cane, but I couldn’t carry a sword on the plane. But, as I asked, what do you know?”

“There are vampires. They can be wounded, but they heal–albeit they need blood to do so– as they get older they can tolerate more sun, although all of them avoid it.” He frowned, “The best way to kill one is to behead them.”

“Beheading kills most things,” John nodded. “An old soldier told me that a long time ago.” _A few hundred years at least._

“And one in particular is stalking Sherlock.”

 _I can’t blame him, or her_. “You know that?”

He looked away, “Yes.”

“Guilt?  A peculiar expression on you.”

“He had information that we needed.  I dealt with him to get it. To this day, I don’t know if he was a vampire, or not–I didn’t know they existed, then– but now that I know…” he nodded, “too much points to a vampire behind it.”

The sun set behind the buildings, and John’s senses sharpened.  He smelled blood– a lot of it.

“Are your men alright? It’s getting dark and I haven’t seen any movement in a while,” John asked carefully.  The men that were in sight shifted uneasily.

Walsingham drew a blade from his umbrella.  Oddly, he shifted into a protective stance relative to John.

“I’m a soldier, Walsingham, I can handle myself.”

“You aren’t armed enough.”

“I have my pistol, and a knife,” John smiled. “It will do.”

One of the men had gone out to check, and came back quickly. “Roberts and Graves, sir, they’re dead… throats torn out.”

John moved quickly, following the smell of blood.

Two men lay dead, just apart from each other, throats cut.  The one had a wound on his arm as well.

“Not a vampire, then,” John said calmly. “Too much blood left and that was done with a knife.”

He turned to look at Walsingham and saw–as only a vampire truly could have in the dim light and deep shadows– a soldier take aim at his back.  John drew and fired.

The guards all drew on him, and he had to admire their discipline because no one pulled the trigger.  Walsingham turned slowly and saw the man lying dead behind him.

“Stand down,” he ordered. “Everyone back to the cars, and send a cleanup crew.” He nodded slowly at John. “My thanks.”

John nodded, “The Queen needs her spymaster, does she not?” He followed him back to the cars.

John got in the car again and inhaled deeply of leather, and secrets, and intrigue, and assassination… and smiled. _No, not dull._

“That… was well shot.”

“Thank you.  You take too many chances, for a man who knows that vampires exist.”

“He wasn’t a vampire.”

“No.  But you, Walsingham, have other reasons for people to want to kill you.  Your Queen wouldn’t want to lose you.  Why take such chances?”

He looked at him and nodded. “Because my name is Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock is my baby brother.”

 


	3. Logic and Myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> only John could convince Sherlock so quickly without evidence

Mycroft dropped him off at the flat, and the car waited until the door opened and shut behind him. John walked up and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, fingers steepled in front of him staring off into space.

“Sherlock?” _No response. No wonder people thought him a vampire._ John went off to make tea, and, after a moment’s thought, asked the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, about food that could be delivered.

John was tasting samples of some truly interesting spices that he never would have imagined finding in any food here, when Sherlock moved. John pushed the container of food at him.

“Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he said idly. “Where were you?”

“Eat, or else.” John smiled, “I was talking to your brother, actually.”

Sherlock stared at him and then frowned. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“He was going to: I pre-emptively said no, and then a few of his guards were murdered by someone trying to pretend to be a vampire.” John poked at the food some more and lifted a noodle too his lips. “All-in-all, a not boring end to the day.” He waved a fork at Sherlock’s food. “Eat. You aren’t a vampire, so you need to eat.”

Sherlock groaned, “Don’t tell me you’re playing along with that nonsense?”

“What nonsense?”

“Vampires!”

“It’s not nonsense.” John looked amused. “Especially since some of the people on the force think you are one. They may even be plotting to murder you.”

“First those intellectual negatives Anderson and Donovan, and now my brother.” Sherlock curled his lip. “I believed at first he was simply taunting me with such superstitious drivel–“

“I’ve seen them,” John said calmly.

Sherlock stared at him. “Hallucinations, or superstition and suggestion.”

“Creatures that need blood to survive tend to haunt the places where people can bleed without suspicion, Sherlock.” He smirked. “If you FINISH your dinner, I’ll tell you the facts.” _At least a few._

Sherlock only reluctantly ate his food. John simply sat there sipping tea and ignoring the increasingly vehement protests and deductions–some of them pretty close, but by no means all.

John finally picked up the leftovers and packaged them up as he’d seen some of the veterans do.

“Alright, Sherlock,” John smiled. ”Your brother, a highly placed intelligence analyst and agent provocateur–“

“How do you know that?!”

“I was calling him Walsingham within minutes of meeting him.” John sipped his tea again. “In any event, if he believes in vampires– or something that may as well be called such– why do you have such trouble accepting it?”

“Walsingham suits him,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. “Vampires are superstitions.”

“Of course they are. They used to be horror stories told around the campfire, and then in the Victorian era they turned into dapper gentlemen and attractive harlots skulking into good people’s bedchambers.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “If you acknowledge that they are superstitions, why claim they are real?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” John shook his head. “Are they?”

Sherlock froze. “Superstitions exist to enable people to have explanations for things they cannot explain, and control over things they cannot control.”

“Which means?” John smiled at him encouragingly.

“They are based on things people have observed, in some fashion.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me that the MYTHS about vampires are based on the real thing?”

“They are.” John cleared the tea away. “And they are horribly inaccurate, usually, but some of them seem to have gotten very close to the truth that I have observed.” John shrugged. “Of course, I often wonder if it’s been complicated by people lumping a number of observations under one myth. I saw a lot of things in Afghanistan and… other places. I don’t think they were all the same thing at all.”

“Like diseases,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Hmmm?”

“Diseases and medical issues,” Sherlock said, looking distant. “They can only see the symptoms at first. Cause was a matter of guesswork until microscopes and so on…”

“Exactly,” John nodded. “It’s not UNREASONABLE to think Malaria is from bad air... it occurs most often near swamps, after all.”

“They see, but do not observe.”

“They observe, but lack the information and tools,” John corrected him gently. “The deduction was sound; wrong, but sound.”

“So there are vampires?”

“Yes.”

“But the information people have is… mixed?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t pretend to keep up on all the myths, but generally? Yes. Your brother has one thing right: beheading will kill them.” John gave him a sharp look, “The problem is it will kill anything I know of. As a test, therefore, it fails.”

“Gunfire?”

“Slows them down–badly, if you hit a joint with a heavy caliber bullet.” John winced reflexively and rubbed his shoulder. “Again, though, a poor test.”

“Someone thought YOU were a vampire?!”

John winced; he’d gotten careless. “It’s more that I can’t help but remember how badly it hurts to get shot.” He sighed. “Unlike ordinary human beings, they’ll heal. Even a missing limb will heal, eventually; it takes time, and a lot of blood.”

“So how do you tell?”

“Well, as far as I can tell the vast majority of vampires avoid sunlight.” _Now how to tell him the truth without causing problems…_ “BUT… legends in the East say that they gain more tolerance as they get more powerful, so that might apply only to the weak.”

“Tolerances,” Sherlock muttered. “Like building up a drug tolerance.”

“Oh!” John blinked at him. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“A drug that would drop someone with no tolerance can have little or no effect on someone who has been exposed over time,” Sherlock muttered.

“I suppose that would be the best way to think about it,” John nodded. “In any event all the tests for vampirism seem to be more myth than substance.” He frowned, debated, and finally decided. “Based on my observations, though, at least the not very powerful vampires don’t bleed.”

“What?”

“If you hit them with a bullet, and blow apart their leg, a human will bleed–badly.”

“Unless shock and spasms cut off the blood flow,” Sherlock nodded.

Joh sighed. “I didn’t say it was foolproof. I just noted that blowing off a vampire’s leg only left a bit of blood spatter from the part that blew OFF–they didn’t continue to bleed. I’m sure that could be noticed with something like a small knife wound.”

He could see Sherlock file that away. “Turning into bats?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve seen. They do seem to see in the dark, likely people just lost sight of them and then saw bats.”

“So likely the same with the legends of mist and wolves and so on.”

John shrugged.

“Hypnosis? The ability to charm people?”

John decided not to lie, but to offer a more rational explanation and see if he took it. “I think it sounds more logical to assume that years of experience as a predator has taught them good manipulation skills.”

Sherlock nodded, “Although sonics…”

“What?”

“Sonics. Vibrations beyond the normal hearing range can influence people’s emotions. Perhaps they simply have compelling subsonics.” He brightened up. “That could be tested! If Mycroft could capture a vampire that could be tested!”

John realized he had his mouth open _. Honestly, I have no idea why we are so compelling; that might be it, I suppose._ “Call him in the morning and suggest it?”

“Why not now?”

“It’s after Midnight.”

Sherlock blinked, “Oh, are you tired?”

John wasn’t, of course, but it was a good excuse. “I think so. Let’s get some sleep, all right? Tomorrow sounds like a busy day.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> suspicions and baritsu

Sherlock started texting his brother more frequently–conversing about vampires, John supposed. John could always tell when it was his brother by the phone-shaped dents in the wall when he came home. Sherlock dragged him along on cases–although his protests were only for form; it’s not like he had anything more interesting to do–and John finally bought a sword cane, which Sherlock noticed immediately.

“It takes training to actually use one!” Sherlock sniffed at him.

Normally, John would have just blown the child off, but he’d been spectacularly rude all day–including to a grieving family member–and the severed foot in the fridge was only tolerable because Sherlock didn’t notice the bagged blood in the crisper drawer.

“You’re being appallingly rude, Sherlock.”

“You’re likely to injure yourself you know.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ve actually studied the arts,” Sherlock sniffed again.

“Good. Go get a sword and a practice space and I’ll tell you what they taught you wrong.” John snorted and went into his room. He honestly expected nothing more of it: Sherlock didn’t stay on a topic for long most days. He came out again dressed a bit more nicely. “I’m going out, don’t wait up.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, being in his usual thoughtful pose. John shrugged and went off to Sarah’s: a bit of light dinner, and then HIS dinner. He didn’t want to get too involved, so it was easy enough to convince her– _Sonics? Maybe_ –that they’d both had a bit much too drink and he’d slept on the sofa. He did, in fact, sleep on the sofa, of course.

It was in the morning that he found out about the bomb blast. He raced back. He had a moment’s thankfulness that the building seemed intact, just the windows damaged, and went inside…

…to find both Sherlock and Mycroft talking to–or rather, snarking at–each other. Listening to them deduce whether he’d slept on the lilo or the sofa–neither even entertained the idea that he was in her bed–was downright eerie…

But something was off.

“Right,” John said finally, looking back and forth between them. “So, the bomb?”

Mycroft looked amused, “They’re claiming it was a gas main.”

“Ridiculous,” John snorted. “Besides, it went off after we got home–and after I left–so it was either aimed at both of us, or just Sherlock. It went off just barely at sundown as well, when a vampire would be up and around, but not yet recovered fully…” _Shit,_ he thought, as both of them turned to look at him.

The pair of them really had the most intense stares. John actually had to fight the urge to fidget. Eventually he decided it was what a mortal would do and fidgeted anyway.

“What?” he said, finally.

“You know far more about vampires than you have told me, or my brother,” Mycroft said very quietly.

“Bonus points to Walsingham,” John sighed. “Tea?”

Mycroft nodded slowly and John spent the time making tea gathering his wits-which promptly went out the window when he got back.

There was Anthea with a courier bag–she was holding a gun on him.

John nodded politely at her. “So that’s why you two were stalling? I’m disappointed.”

“Your background is false,” Mycroft said slowly, staring at him. Sherlock was looking in disbelief at a computer pad.

John put the tray down carefully. “Would you like my firearm? Or prefer that I simply keep my hands in sight?” Anthea was watching him in confusion. _I suppose it’s not how most people respond._

“I’d like an explanation!” Mycroft’s hands tightened on his umbrella.

Sherlock said quietly, “So would I.”

John sat down. “I have a policy of not answering any questions under threat.” He picked up his tea and sipped at it. “But I am frankly hurt by your behavior.”

“I could have you disappear,” Mycroft threatened.

“A poor repayment for saving your life the last time you threatened me.”

“I’m not wrong.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Soldier, Afghanistan, your sister…”

John smiled. “You aren’t wrong, but I still won’t have a discussion like this at gunpoint.”

Mycroft finally made a slight signal to Anthea, and she put the gun away.

“My background is, in fact, false,” John nodded. “It was never intended to hold up, after all. I came back to London to die.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, but Sherlock sat up in shock. “What?!” Then he glared at his brother, “You knew?”

“He told me when we met.”

“You interested me, Sherlock,” John smiled at him. “You weren’t boring. You were so very, very clever, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” Sherlock was horribly susceptible to flattery and was puffing up like a pigeon. “Plus the obvious looks, and your voice, of course. Yes, I thought you were a vampire at first.”

“So why a false background?” Sherlock asked, glancing at Mycroft.

“You could have just ASKED me, you know.” He was hurt by Sherlock’s behavior and let it show.

John sighed and sat back. “I don’t exist,” John nodded politely at Mycroft. “There are no records of me in your system outside the ones that were created for you.” He smiled, “If you two actually TALKED, you would have realized sooner. I have a sister–Harry–as Sherlock deduced, but no sister in my official records: that’s just one discrepancy.”

“So who are you and what are you doing here?” Sherlock asked him quietly.

“I told you, I came home to London to die… and got sidetracked.” John shook his head at him, “Which I would have told you if you’d just ASKED.”

Mycroft frowned. “Then how do you know so much about vampires?”

“I TOLD you, I encountered the first one in Afghanistan–well, the borders are a bit iffy: I think it was Afghanistan.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t mention how many I’ve encountered since.” He tilted his head slightly, “You aren’t the only one who keeps their cards close to their chest, Walsingham. I’m not used to talking about it.”

“You…” Mycroft frowned, “Tell me what you know, then.”

“Wouldn’t it spoil the fun?” John asked lightly. “Sherlock’s always telling me not to give him the answer.” He looked pointedly at Mycroft and Sherlock, “Besides, you have rather wounded my trust.”

“I’d like to know,” Anthea said suddenly. “Will you tell me?”

“I asked you out, the first time.” John smiled. “You still haven’t told me if you’re single.”

She frowned, “I was just holding a gun on you and you want a date?”

“Under orders, yes. Besides, I have a fetish for danger, ask Sherlock.”

“He does seem to,” Sherlock nodded.

“I had noticed,” Mycroft grudgingly admitted.

“I…” She looked him up and down. “I AM single, but I’m not ready to date again just yet.”

“Fair,” he nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“You aren’t holding out for a date?”

He snorted. “I have never in my life been that desperate, or that rude.” _Hell, even when I could buy a slave for that, I preferred them willing and eager._

A brief flicker of a smile crossed her face. “How can you tell a vampire from… anyone else?”

“YOU can’t, usually.” He tried to let his sympathy show on his face. “If they are VERY young, you can tell. The fangs show, they lose control at the smell of blood–as do most of the older ones, if they get hungry enough–but otherwise you simply CANNOT tell by looks.” He frowned. “Well, a lot of the youngsters these days seem to look like Sherlock–pale, thin, dark hair–but I suspect that’s from their sires choosing people who looked like they expected.”

“A self-fulfilling prophecy then? Choosing people who look like vampires to become vampires?” Mycroft said slowly.

“I think so.”

“So they DO start as human?”

John stared at all of them. “Yes. Didn’t you know that?”

“It seemed likely.”

 “You emphasized that I couldn’t tell–can you?” Anthea asked.

He grinned. “Sometimes. Some humans have a gift for it.” _No point in mentioning I wasn’t one of them; it was true, after all._ “Not sure how reliable it is.” He looked thoughtful, “I must state that even the vampires I have seen only seem to be certain of each other at close range, so I suspect smell. Which may explain the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“Dogs, horses, and so on… they sometimes act up around a vampire.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s the vampire, or the recent smell of blood, though.”

“We need to test the sonics,” Sherlock said suddenly. “If their voices have unusual sonics it would ALSO explain the animals.”

John thought about it, thought about how animals seemed perfectly alright around him, most of the time, and how he used so few of his abilities…”You may be right.”

Sherlock nodded at Anthea. “John said they don’t bleed.”

“As far as I know, they don’t bleed like humans.” John reiterated his explanation for Mycroft and Anthea.

Mycroft asked, “Do they bruise?”

“Well…” _Only if we pay attention and let ourselves_. “I don’t think so? But honestly, I never checked.”

“So control over their circulation, which makes sense given the blood issues.” Mycroft nodded at Anthea.

“So... Are you arresting me, shooting me, or what?” John sat back in his chair.

Sherlock smirked. “Taking you to a fencing academy and making you eat that challenge, more like.”

“What?” John took a moment to remember yesterday’s discussion. “Oh.”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“John challenged me to a fencing match. I’m inviting you and Anthea.” He turned to John, “When you lose, you tell me who you are, and what you know.”

John laughed, “Well, at the moment I’m John Watson. What do I get after I win?”

Mycroft was apparently just as egocentric as his brother. “My brother is good; I’m extremely good–you won’t win.”

John smirked, “I win against Sherlock and he apologizes for his rude behavior–which has to be about as painful as cutting off his foot, from the way he acts” Sherlock started to say something and then glared at Mycroft when Mycroft couldn’t stifle the laugh. “I win against you and you fix my background and get me enough proper identification to pass. Deal?”

“Agreed, but you won’t win: I studied Baritsu and fencing quite extensively–you?” Mycroft snorted.

“I know Baritsu, and fencing is a fancy word for people who don’t know how to use a knife or sword in the real world. You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its really hard to suspect a short, tanned, sweater wearing guy... who has been living in your flat and running around to cases with you (and shooting assailants) of being a vampire  
> REALLY hard  
> so they suspect a lot, but... but... not that, not really. um.. spy? (john?!) uh... vampire hunter? that must be it!


	5. Touché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My father used to fence, and i actually know someone who teaches Bartitsu.  
> that said, I am strictly a dabbling amateur.

He was escorted into the black car with the tinted windows and driven across London to a fencing academy. He was pleased to see it had vast windows up at height and skylights along the length of the ceiling. He looked approving.

“Good. Lots of light.” He grinned, “Mind you, you should drill in bad lighting too. Most real opponents won’t wait for good light and flat floors.” _So with all this daylight it would be a fair fight–allowing for vastly more experience, anyway._

“We have the building to ourselves for several hours,” Mycroft nodded.

“So, Blossom–Anthea–will you be taking a turn?”

“I’m not adept at swordplay.”

John frowned. “You should be. Your pistol isn’t heavy enough against a vampire.”

“It is. Hollow point and magnum rounds,” she nodded.

John shook his head. “Against some? Certainly. But not all, and the older ones… Well, they don’t often respect a pistol, even if it IS good enough. You should learn the sword.”

“Are you offering to teach me? I thought you were a problem,” she smirked.

John grinned, “First of all, if I was a problem to you and to these gentlemen, you would be dead already; secondly, yes, I’m offering to teach you.”

Mycroft snorted, “All three of us are quite deadly in our own ways.”

“Right. So, who’s first?”

“It was my challenge,” Sherlock said, “so I am.”

Sherlock took a few practice swords off the racks. John just shook his head.

“You DO understand this is supposed to be ‘like the real thing’, only obviously without the ‘killing you’ part?”

“Certainly.” Sherlock adopted the overdone posture of the reconstructed Italian fencing school–one that meant a great deal if you were holding a lantern, cape, or a dagger in your off hand.

“Trying to copy the Radaellian school?” John sighed. “Then you shouldn’t have removed your coat.”

Sherlock looked puzzled and his eyes flickered off toward his coat. John flicked the sword in his hand and disarmed him, moving up swiftly to swing low with a leg sweep and take him to the ground.

“That’s an illegal move!” Sherlock huffed, as John’s sword hovered over his throat.

“First of all, there are no illegal moves in a street fight. Secondly you claimed to know Bartitsu, which includes hand and foot strikes, and yet you were unprepared. Thirdly, if you wish to copy the Italian School of Swordsmanship, it did in fact include leg sweeps and other strikes–such as entangling with a cloak. Lastly,” John smirked, “if you take your eyes off the opponent, they do things like that.”

“I yield,” Sherlock grumbled.

John helped him up. “And?”

“And what?”

John tapped his foot. “You owe me an apology.”

“Oh… yes. What for?”

John stared at him and then rubbed his nose. “For not just ASKING me, and instead letting someone hold me at gunpoint in my own home and demand answers. How can I live with you if you won’t even show me THAT much courtesy?”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked abashed. Mycroft looked a bit abashed himself. Anthea mostly looked fascinated. “I am very sorry, John. You were quite right: if you had intended me harm you had ample opportunity. I should have asked for an explanation.”

John nodded. “After I win Mycroft’s round we’ll go again, and hopefully you won’t be so easily distracted.”

“You won’t find me such an easy win,” Mycroft stated, removing his jacket and vest. He picked up a practice sword.

John nodded, “I should be disappointed if you were.”

Mycroft had the advantage of having seen his short duel with Sherlock: he didn’t permit the same mistakes. He came in fast and hard, using feet, hands, and sword. John disarmed him once and he still managed to evade and retrieve it.

“Good!” John said cheerfully, before rolling under Mycroft’s reach.

They exchanged blows, wearing each other down. John was better, but Mycroft had a near supernatural ability to anticipate him.

After several exchanges, John determined that Mycroft was simply unused to a much shorter opponent and rolled again, this time coming up almost under him, well within his guard. Mycroft surrendered with a blade under his chin.

“Yield,” he said, gasping for air.

John reminded himself to breathe more deeply. “You are quite good! Are you certain you don’t read minds?”

They broke apart and retreated to drink water and wipe off sweat.

“I anticipate, based on subtle cues, but, sadly, no, I don’t read minds.” He looked at him thoughtfully, “Some legends say vampires do.”

John shook his head. “If they do, I never encountered it.”

Mycroft studied him. “Very well, I owe you a better version of your identity.”

Sherlock was clearly preparing for another round.

John nodded, “A bit of advice, Mycroft: you started with me by trying to frighten me, and threaten or bribe me; this time, you had your agent hold me at gunpoint and demand answers–that sort of behavior MAKES enemies, where you had none previously.”

Mycroft bit his lip thoughtfully and nodded. Sherlock winced.

“Now, I suggest the Lady Anthea acquire some proper clothing to study the arts in, and I can get her started on swordsmanship. In the meantime I believe we are all overdue for lunch.”

Mycroft looked at him. “You… are remarkably difficult to figure out.”

Sherlock nodded, “You are, at that.”

“As I said, if I meant you harm, I had ample opportunity.” John shook his head. “In any case, the first rule of a battle is to never turn down an opportunity to eat or sleep: you may have to do without for long periods.”

Anthea looked up from her phone. “What other rules do you know?”

“Oh, a great number,” he smiled. “Never stick your hand into a cleft in the rock–the creature living there may object. Never leave a wounded enemy behind you, unless you know for a fact that he is honorable and how he will behave. Never trust anyone but your own men–or women–to pack your gear…” John nodded. “But they all come down to know your enemy, know yourself, and know the terrain or weapons.”

“Simple enough,” Sherlock snorted.

“Yes, it is, and people die from forgetting it even so.”

“So how do you know so much about vampires?” Sherlock rather doggedly went back to the question.

“When you lot prove you can go for a few weeks without threatening me–and ask me politely–I might answer you.” John shook his head. “In the meantime, you have a theory about sonics–which I can’t speak to, because I have no idea–and my information about vampires not bleeding casually, so you’re up by a few.” John shrugged. “Lunch, rematch with Sherlock, lessons for Anthea, and then I have to go find a place to stay for the night.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“The flat windows will be repaired while we are out,” Mycroft said, sounding puzzled, “and the building was intact. You have no need to move out for the night.”

John stared at the two of them. “You have to be joking…” After a bit he laughed, “Oh, you two are incredible! I am moving OUT. As I said, you cannot expect me to stay, much less sleep, in a position where I am that vulnerable–with people who threaten me at the first question–can you?”

Sherlock looked shocked, “But… But you said…”

“I’m not a toy soldier you can hold over a fire and then play with again,” John said patiently. “You’re interesting, and I’m willing to help you–and your brother–but I didn’t live this long by letting people abuse my trust.” John shook his head.

“I thought you said I wasn’t very threatening,” Mycroft said slowly.

“First of all, when a man wants to die, threatening to kill him isn’t very threatening, Walsingham.” John nodded, “Secondly? I thought the two of us were working together as allies, if not friends, and I thought Sherlock and I were friends. Based on how I was treated today, that was a mistake.”

Sherlock looked stunned.

John smiled politely and gave a fencer’s bow to Anthea. “Perhaps I best leave now. You can get started on the basics with those two; give me a shout when you’re ready for more.”

He picked up his sweater and his jacket, “I’ll be by tomorrow to pack up, Sherlock.” John walked off to the exit.

“What can I do to change your mind, John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded shaken. _He was such a child, really, but he would never grow up if he never had to._

“I told you. Prove you can behave better. Trust me, or don’t trust me, but don’t tell me one thing and do another,” he said, never looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern (Olympic) fencing permits of no other contact but use of the blade. this is not true of previous styes of dueling, nor of actual street fighting. Many of the older dueling/fencing forms used an off hand entangling cape, or so on.  
> Sherlock is MUCH better than this, he just completely underestimated John, lowered his guard, etc. arrogance will do that to you.


	6. Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i did mention that even John thought Sherlock was a vampire at first...

John ignored the cameras tracking him: he didn’t care if Mycroft knew where he was. He went to a museum, and then to a restaurant, since–to convincingly portray himself as human–he had to maintain the fiction of eating; besides, the people watching was fun.

And early in the evening, after the sun had turned to fire on the horizon, he went to a club. He walked out of the first one quickly enough, the people being too young for him to blend in; the second one, however, had promise. He found his own dinner quickly, feeding from her in a corner of the club and then calling her a cab to go home, as she was “clearly a bit tipsy”, which left him the rest of the evening to find someone to stay with.

It also meant that the bartender and staff now knew him to be a “safe” fellow. He had learned from Harry how much sway the staff could have on your fortunes at a pub.

He was flirting with a couple of likely prospects, when the hair on his nape went up. _Those people there… they were hunting?_ He moved out on the dance floor and watched… _They were. A small pack of vampires, perhaps? Who were they…_

 _Sherlock. They were hunting Sherlock. Mine!_ He shook his head slightly. _He wasn’t marked as mine._

 _Wait… Sherlock never went to a club except for a case, so why was Sherlock here?_ Probably looking for him, having deduced how he would find a place to stay.

_So… were they vampires? Or hunters mistaking Sherlock for a vampire?_

John sighed, and let Sherlock see him as he left the club. Sherlock followed him immediately, of course. John walked without concern until he passed a narrow alleyway and ducked into it. Sherlock passed him without noticing, coat collar turned up, and eyes scanning carefully. Shortly afterwards three of the pack followed… John sniffed: _Human. Vampire hunters then? Or simply a case?_

John stepped back into the darkness behind them and followed. The wind favored him and he could have followed from Sherlock’s scent alone–he knew his scent well enough not to lose him after living in his flat for so long. He let himself fall further back, following by scent.

_Blood._

He ran, his speed blurring beyond human, to find they had cornered Sherlock and were armed with blades. They were four, now, another had caught up with them.

He blocked a swing with his cane that would have grievously wounded Sherlock, not having time to draw the blade.

“Idiots!” John snapped.

“Just back off, you don’t know what you’re dealing with,” one of them said, darting in to try to get a strike on Sherlock again.

Sherlock was holding his arm, blood seeping sluggishly through his coat. “John?”

“Hunters! Stupid, mewling, baby HUNTERS who think you’re a vampire.” John snapped, twirling his cane and striking one of the fools across the temple. He went down.

“What?” One of them paused in confusion and he swung into their kneecap; they screamed.

“He’s a vampire!” one of the two exclaimed.

“No, he isn’t, you daft ninny!” John snarled, moving in front of Sherlock and drawing his blade.

He saw a shadow moving up at speed and sighed. There were two vampires: one of them tore into the downed hunter, while the other came straight for Sherlock, following the blood.

John beheaded him in a stroke.

The other vampire was lost, feeding deeply. John left him to the remaining hunters. “Sherlock, you need to bind that quickly.”

“Trying to, it’s difficult one-handed.”

John moved to his side and used his off hand to help Sherlock hold the fabric taut to tie it. As soon as he was done he handed him his phone. “Call your brother.”

“But–“

“Call him.” He leaned into the words, but the command voice from wartime might have been sufficient.

The surviving hunters were trying to retreat, and then a **pack** of vampires showed up.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s voice shook.

John snapped loudly, “Outnumbered, and Sherlock’s bleeding.” He heard Mycroft say the car was nearby– _it better be._

The hunters fell quickly; one of them screamed, but not for long.

Some fool childe in a leather jacket–pale and gaunt, and hollow eyed as he must have been in his first life–advanced on John. “Throw me your wounded boy, and you live.”

John felt nothing but contempt. _Rabble like this? They should be swept from the streets._

The childe moved with what the youngsters called speed. John didn’t even call on his abilities–the fool moved predictably; he intersected his motion with the blade and the idiot beheaded himself.

John smiled, tight lipped, “Next?”

Three vampires stood staring, wondering what to do, as a familiar black-tinted car pulled up on the street behind them. The door opened and the Lady Anthea fired, hitting the one furthest from John in the back–he went down screaming.

John saw the opening as the other two turned away from him and he moved in; keeping his speed to human, he still beheaded the first before the second could react. That one tried to flee, but Anthea’s bullet was faster: she slowed him with the first shot, and felled him with the second.

“We want one alive–uh, intact!” Sherlock called out, trying not to sound weak.

“How?!” Anthea shouted back.

John sighed, looking around at the blood wasted, and the bodies. “Handcuffs, I expect: they’re only children.”

He scooped up the cane sheath and slid an arm around Sherlock. “Come on, you need a hospital.”

He half carried him to the car–apparently there was only a driver and Anthea. After he laid Sherlock in the back, he turned to Anthea and took her off hand. “Lady, your marksmanship is excellent.” He kissed her finger tips and stepped back.

She looked enchanted, then looked away, “I told you a gun worked well enough.”

“In the right hands–and against youngsters. I would still feel better if you had training with a blade.” He waved at the two downed vampires. “Get Sherlock to a hospital. I can stand guard on these until you can send someone to pick them up.”

She nodded, “I’m sorry I doubted you, you know.”

“Don’t be, you had your orders.” He smiled, “Besides,” he couldn’t help but add as he closed the door for her, “I have a lot of secrets.”

“Be careful,” she said out the window. “The cameras here were disabled.”

 _Of course they were: vampire hunting ground that this was, the children would break the cameras._ He waited until the car pulled away, then went back to the two vampires and put a bullet into each of them, right at the hip.

It was then he heard the faint sound of breathing… _One of the hunters was alive._

He hadn’t seen that one since the club; he must have come to help during the melee when John was busy and gone down too quickly to notice. John looked at his arm, torn badly from the sloppy feeding, and the ring of bruises around the man’s throat. He tore a shirt into strips and bandaged the man’s arm tightly, then carried him up the wall to the roof. _He might die, he might not._ He sniffed at the blood and thought about the bagged blood at Sherlock’s flat. _Yes, I have some of that type…_

John went back down and waited. An unmarked van showed up full of Walsingham’s men and took the bodies and the two surviving vampires away.

“You’re to come with us also,” one of the men said to John.

John smiled and shook his head. “Tell Mycroft I’ll talk to him in the morning. It looks like I’ll need to go back to Baker Street to wash up and change anyway.”

The man frowned, “I was told to collect you and drop you off at the hospital.”

“It’s none of it MY blood,” John laughed, and finished putting his sword away. “Call him if you have to, but you need to get your prisoners to a holding cell, don’t you?”

He hesitated. John didn’t bother using the Voice, simply military command. “Tell Mycroft I went back to the Baker Street flat. I will probably sleep late, and Sherlock needs him. He can see me tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir,” the man nodded and turned on his heel. _Military training hadn’t changed much._

John waited until they were gone and sank back into the dark, then went up the wall. The hunter was still breathing, although, in another era, he would be as good as dead. If he tried to heal him now, he would turn–or die–but luckily he had another option.

He carried the hunter with blurring speed back to Baker Street, avoiding the cameras, and then up the wall to his bedroom window. Carrying him through to the bath, he set the man in the tub. He fetched the bagged blood that matched this man’s smell and started the transfusions. He set aside the two bags of blood that didn’t match to make up for his own exertion.

After two bags of blood the man opened his eyes, just a little; John gave him the third and last. John kept his sword handy in case he judged awrong and bit his own wrist, holding it to the man’s lips and forcing him to swallow. Either he would heal, or turn, and if he turned John would behead him rather than deal with it.

He healed, his arm closing, his breathing steadying, his eyes going soft. John pulled his wrist away and sealed it, then drank the remaining bagged blood while the hunter slept.

He stripped them both and held the man up in a shower, cleaning the blood off them both. He dried him off and put him down on his bed, thinking. He was too tall and thin for most of John’s clothes, and too short and wide for any of Sherlock’s. He cleaned up the evidence, finding the man had a phone in his pocket–a simpler one than John’s–and he put his number in it under Doctor John.

_Damn, Sherlock still had my phone–best hope he didn’t go nosing about._

Eventually, he woke the man up.

“What?” the man started woozily and then sprang up, alarmed.

“Sit,” John pointed at the bed. “You needed medical care and you’re lucky to be alive.” _Lucky I need eyes in the hunter community to safeguard Sherlock._

The man sat and then looked at his arm slowly, staring at the untouched skin and running fingers over it. “That’s impossible.”

“Ah, a pity. You remember that?” John shook his head and switched to the Voice–the man had his blood in him, it scarcely needed any effort. “You will tell your friends that I saved you before the vampire could do more than choke you and hit you against the wall: you can tell them what you saw up until that point; after that, I expect you don’t recall anyway.”

“You’re… you’re one of them?!”

“Hardly. Young riff-raff,” John snorted. “Calm down.”

Against his will the man’s pulse slowed and his breathing evened out. “Why? Why didn’t you just kill me? Why did you attack the vampires?”

“I was rescuing the man you were stalking in the club,” John answered calmly. “You will not do anything to reveal that I am a vampire unless I give you permission. As far as everyone is concerned, I am a human soldier and doctor, and I saved your life.”

The man looked dazed and slid down off the bed; John picked him up.

After a while he asked quietly, “Where’s your… father? Partner?”

“What?”

“The one we followed.”

“Sherlock? In the hospital, thanks to your lot,” John shook his head, “HE’S the human, not me. You were attacking a human.”

He looked up, stunned and horrified. “He’s your slave? Not a vampire?”

“He’s not my slave.” _He’d be better behaved_. “He doesn’t even know what I am. He didn’t believe vampires existed until recently.” John sighed, “You’re my slave, the first one in this era–congratulations–and the term is thrall. Now, let’s get your story straight and go over the rules.”


	7. Language and Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snow and ice storm here in Philadelphia, so please be patient with updates, replies and corrections. Comments always greatly appreciated.

John's new thrall was named Stephen, and had a head full of the most ridiculous nonsense about vampires–though, in fairness, it might as well be true, the way the youngsters acted. He spent most of the early morning getting him stable and instructing him in his new orders.

John slipped out and bought him clothing when the shops opened in the morning, as well as returning with some breakfast goods. Stephen looked shocked at him when he handed him the clothes and food.

“Vampires don’t normally think to feed their slaves.”

John sighed, “If that was true, their thralls would die very quickly.”

“They usually do.”

John stared at him. “Not all our kind in this era are such ill-mannered starvelings as the last; as I have saved you, do not judge me by the actions of such ill-bred guttersnipes as they.”

“What did you say?”

John took a deep breath. _Gods, I am tired._ “I am exhausted, and I forget my speech.”

Stephen blinked at him a lot more.

John sighed, “Get dressed and go about your business. Come when I call you. Remember your orders.”

He clearly wanted to ask, but he dressed and left.

John threw Stephen’s old clothes into the incinerator, and sorted those of his own that could be saved. Then he fell over on his bed.

*

He woke up quickly when someone moved too close. His hand was closing on the man’s throat before he recognized him. _Sherlock._ He jerked his hand back. “Gods! Don’t do that!”

Sherlock recoiled backwards with a dazed look, his eyes wide with alarm but far too dark. “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t see you breathing…”

John shook his head and stared, “What drugs did they give you?”

Mycroft’s voice came from the hall, “Morphine, unfortunately.”

John got up and helped Sherlock back out. “I meant to be packed by now, but things happened.” Sherlock was bandaged chest and arm.

Mycroft was in the room–no sign of Anthea. “John, I apologize again for my poor behavior, but I hope you understand–”

John interrupted him, as he settled Sherlock carefully on the sofa. “The fact that I understand is why I didn’t do anything drastic. It doesn’t mean I can permit myself to be treated that way by either of you.”

“I’m… sorry,” Sherlock said very much more quietly. “I was trying to find you to apologize.”

“I doubt it,” John snorted. He continued over Sherlock and Mycroft’s protests, “You were trying to find me to EXPLAIN why it was perfectly REASONABLE and I should just ACCEPT your apology and not move out.” John glared at him, “Oh, yes, and likely chase off any one I tried to find, like you did the last time I was on a date and you had a case.”

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock looked ever-so-faintly guilty.

“Please don’t move out.”

“Did it occur to you to ask that in the first place instead of trying to manipulate me?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted.

“I’m willing to stay long enough to make sure you heal properly.” John glared at him, “And that’s your chance to prove you can behave like a reasonable adult–or even a reasonable child.”

“I would appreciate it if you could,” Mycroft admitted. “He should still be in the hospital, but…”

John shook his head, and changed the subject. “Did you manage to contain the two?”

“Yes. They’ve been moved to highly secure cells, and fed a great deal of blood. Several of my people who had thought I was… unhinged, at best… have now seen the evidence.”

“I hope you are keeping this very close?” John frowned. “Witch hunts are not the aberration, Mycroft, but the norm. Look what happened to Sherlock: that was vampire hunters.”

Sherlock mumbled, “They actually attacked me because they thought I was a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“The vampires knew I wasn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes closing.

“You were bleeding, Sherlock, you smelled like dinner,” John sighed. “That’s likely what attracted them: following the smell of blood.”

Mycroft nodded, “Yes, I am keeping it very close. Anthea is supervising at the moment.”

John frowned. “I’ll take care of him. Just be sure you don’t give them an opportunity to use any vampiric influence to be let loose.”

“We are testing Sherlock’s hypothesis of sonics and being extremely careful, I assure you.”

 _It might be enough for those idiots; you’d be dead if it was anyone serious._ John just nodded.

Mycroft glanced over and saw that Sherlock had dozed off on the sofa. He pulled John aside and spoke quietly. “I haven’t told him, yet, but the doctors said it was very deep, John. He may never recover the full use of his arm.”

John stared at him and his eyes tracked over to Sherlock’s violin. _That would be a crime…_

Mycroft nodded sadly. “In addition, you found out he was addicted? He needs the pain medication, but every time he has to be on opiates it’s been a problem.” Mycroft sighed. “When he realizes how bad the damage is, I’m very much afraid…”

 _No, I can’t let that happen_. “I’ll take care of him, Mycroft, doctors can be wrong.”

Mycroft shook his head sadly, “It’s my fault for not taking this seriously enough; my brother has never had much sense of self preservation.”

“Who knows how bad the injuries are?”

“Myself; the doctor; I suppose a few of the nurses–why?”

“Can you get rid of the records?”

“Already done.” Mycroft frowned, “I couldn’t risk them falling into Moriarty’s hands–or whoever is behind this.”

John nodded slowly, and leaned into the Voice, being as careful as he could–with Mycroft’s intelligence he might remember otherwise–“Mycroft, The doctor only got a quick look, and he was overworked and sleep deprived–it likely isn’t that bad. You’ll take my opinion on it once I get a chance to look.”

Mycroft’s eyes went unfocused for the barest moment. “I would prefer to hear your opinion on it, yes.”

“I’ll look after him. Go deal with business.”

He showed Mycroft out and went back to Sherlock on the sofa. _The thought of never hearing him play again? No. But to enslave him? That was wrong, on far too many levels. I want him to grow up, not… not be caged._

_I’ll have to be very careful, never even speak too firmly to him until the blood is out of his system…_

John sighed. He’d made up his mind in the first moment: this was just hesitating, and there was no point. He bit his wrist and pressed it to Sherlock’s lips. Watching Sherlock’s mouth painted with blood, his sharp features and still childish face drifting in a haze of sleep and pleasure as John fed him was heavenly. Eventually, John pulled his wrist away and licked the wound closed.

“Sherlock listen,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “You don’t want the morphine. You and I are working on some mind techniques to deal with the pain and,” he smiled as he chose words as much like Sherlock’s attitude as he could, “besides, the hospital doctor was an idiot. Obviously, John knows better, and I’d rather have him treat me.”

Sherlock mumbled, “Idiot doctor. Said I might not recover.”

John went cold as he realized Sherlock HAD heard that. “It’s not true.” John said firmly. “You remember: he was very tired, the doctor, and distracted, and he had other slash wounds earlier, he just mixed them up in his head.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Doctor took too many stimulants to stay awake for the shift; he wasn’t well.”

John nodded. “Sleep now, rest. I’ll be back later.”

Sherlock settled and stilled.

John went out, making sure he was seen going to buy more bandages and medical supplies before slipping away to get more bagged blood.


	8. lessons and meetings

The next day, John made sure Sherlock ate breakfast and lunch, then put him under again to get him showered and re-bandaged. The wounds were almost gone. John gave him another dose of blood, and emphasized not paying attention to the wounds, just taking it easy.

He called Mycroft. He left a message with a secretary of some sort and waited, expecting to be called in a few hours–he was called in a few minutes.

“John, how is my brother?” Mycroft asked without preamble. John heard screaming in the background, and shouting.

“As I suspected, it looked a lot worse than it was.” John thought the noises were loud enough that anyone could hear them. “If that’s the prisoners, they are quite loud… You ARE being careful?”

“Ah. Yes, we are. How much do you think he will recover?”

“If I can keep him from being TOO idiotic, he should be fine.”

He could hear the relief in Mycroft’s voice, “So… doomed, you say?”

“Quite.” John grinned, then continued, “Do be careful with them, Mycroft–they may only be youngsters, but a cornered animal is the most dangerous.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up. _Calling him back from his interrogation and studies? He must have been dreadfully worried._

He put Sherlock to bed and slipped out. It was daylight, so he took a cab across town to Stephen’s flat with an extra bag of blood. It had already been a bit longer than he would have normally left a new thrall, but needs must. He knocked on the door and it was answered almost instantly by someone he didn’t know.

“I’m here to see Stephen. I’m sorry, I didn’t know he had company.”

The fellow answering the door looked nervous and bookish. “Uh, we weren’t expecting anyone?”

“I came by to check on him,” John was saying and then the door was yanked open completely by an angry looking girl with bright blue hair. John had seen colored hair, but not quite that impossible shade–and not up close–so he rather missed whatever she had said.

“Sorry? I missed–”

“Who are you?” she snapped.

John narrowed his eyes. “You are exceedingly rude. I’m John Watson and I came to see if Stephen was alright. If he’s here, call him. If he’s not, I’ll be leaving.”

Stephen’s voice, sounding alarmed, came from inside the flat, “Oh, God…”

“Stephen? I’m here to see you.” John glared at the girl. “And whoever this is, is rude.”

“He– He’s the Doctor who patched me up and helped me get home,” Stephen said–of course, he had to. “He’s the one who saved me from the vampires…”

John raised an eyebrow. _So the two at the door and anyone else inside knew about vampires? More hunters then… Still rude._

Blue Girl reluctantly let him in. He could feel Stephen panicking, even if he didn’t show it.

“Calm down, Stephen.” _No need to use Voice: he had to listen after all._

In addition to Stephen and the two at the door, there were three other people in the flat–one in a leg cast.

“More hunters, then?” John sighed as he came in. “Hopefully, better than the others.”

“You know what happened to our friends?” one of the three in the room growled. _Military, obviously._

John straightened up and glared at him. “Your ‘friends’ were amateurs who attacked my friend with blades, slashing him badly, and spilling blood in a prime hunting ground, which attracted a low-ranking pack of scavengers–they got killed. If I hadn’t been there, they would have killed my friend first, and they still would have died–and Stephen would have been dead, as well.”

Several of them looked at each other. “They were stalking a vampire,” Military said.

“They were stalking a human wearing black clothing who is pale–like half the people in the nightclubs! If every pale skinned, darkly dressed fellow was a vampire, I think you’d have your hands full.” John let his contempt show.

“They really…” Nervous Bookish door fellow gulped, “attacked a human?”

“Yes. He was in the hospital and only released to go home because I could take care of him.” John looked pointedly at Stephen, “I hope these friends are less inclined to randomly murder people for being pale and thin?”

Stephen just fidgeted and looked guilty. The Military fellow frowned. “We… We’re just trying to protect people.”

John looked at him. “Where did you serve, soldier?”

“Afghanistan.”

John blinked. “So did I.”

“What?”

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers… combat medic.” _At least, the most recent time._

Military fellow stared at him. “Do you know Mike?”

“Stamford? Veterans’ liaison? Of course.” He sighed, “And Mike is the friend who introduced me to Sherlock, the flatmate who got attacked by your friends.”

Stephen was looking back and forth in stunned shock–John assumed it would be put down to surprise that they had connections. The others seemed to be taking this as a good reference for John, and as confirmation that Sherlock was human.

“We would never knowingly attack a human!” the fellow in the leg cast said. “Will he be alright?”

“Eventually, but they weren’t the first to threaten him. If you lot are going to not murder anyone, how about only going after problems?”

“But vampires aren’t easy to detect!” Leg Cast said.

“First of all, I’m Captain John Watson,” John glanced at Military

“Sergeant Terrence Browning,” Military said, fighting the urge to salute.

John nodded, “If you can’t tell they’re a vampire, they must not be causing any trouble; if they aren’t causing any trouble, they are either NOT a vampire, or they can safely be made note of and ignored while you concentrate on actual threats. That’s simple enough.”

Terrence nodded; so did many of the others. Blue Hair snarled, “They all need to die.”

John looked at her, “How many civilians are you willing to murder for it?”

She gasped and glared at him, “How dare you!”

“It’s an honest question,” John stated. “If you are willing to kill anyone just because you SUSPECT they may be a vampire, even if they aren’t doing anything, what is the acceptable number of innocent people per?”

She slapped him–or tried to; John caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. He saw Stephen tense. “You, young woman, have run out my patience. Sergeant? Can you escort her OUT before I do something I will regret?”

“Yes, Sir.” Terrence took her by the arm and showed her out, over her protests.

“Come back when you cool off, Julie,” he suggested as he shut the door.

“Is that safe?” Leg Cast asked.

“It’s daylight,” Bookish answered.

John sighed. “You know the older ones can tolerate some daylight, right?”

Judging from the stunned looks, no, they didn’t.

“In any event, the ones that CAN tolerate daylight generally survived that long by not being idiots, so they’re unlikely to be randomly attacking people.” John sighed and shook his head, “Right. Short course in vampires... Stephen? Make some room in your fridge.”

“Yes, Sir… uh… Why?”

“I brought some bagged blood.” He saw Stephen tense and smirked, “Given what you were hunting, I thought having some on hand in case one of your friends needed a transfusion might be good.”

“Oh,” Stephen said weakly.

“That’s a good idea! Thank you! How did you get?”

“Combat medic, and my flatmate–the injured one–is a private detective.” John put the blood, and some of the other medical supplies, in the fridge.

He turned and looked at them, “Alright then, class begins…”

~

Just before sunset everyone else left, most of them shaking his hand and thanking him, all of them taking his phone number “just in case”. Once they were gone, he looked back at Stephen, “Your friends are untrained homicidal idiots. At least this lot had some potential.”

“I… Why are you helping?”

“To reduce the number of incidents like last time.” John looked him over. “Eat more and not just junk.” John took out some cash and handed it to him.

Stephen looked at it and seemed a bit stunned, but he nodded. “Can– Can I ask a question?” John nodded. “How did you convince Terrence that you were military?”

John raised an eyebrow, “Because I am? Or was.”

“You were in Afghanistan? You… uh, turned into one later?”

John laughed, “I was ‘turned into one’ IN Afghanistan, assuming I have the borders clear. Vampires are found worldwide, Stephen; however, I am FROM here–London, more or less–originally.”

He chewed on his lip. “You’re… not like the other vampires,” Stephen finally said.

John shrugged, “The youngsters are a rowdy bunch. You don’t see the older vampires, since we generally don’t start trouble.”

“How old are you?”

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Remember I said older vampires can walk in daylight a bit?”

“Yes.”

“I came here in a cab in the afternoon–on a sunny day.” John looked at his appalled expression. “Get some food, get enough sleep. Tomorrow evening, meet me at this tavern,” he handed him Harry’s business card, “and yes, there will be vampires there–under no circumstances do you bother them. If anyone troubles you, you just say ‘I’m here to see John.’ If they don’t accept that, ask for Harry.”

“What if my friends insist on coming?”

“Are they your friends or your jailors?” John snorted. “If they insist on coming along, they take their own chances.”

“Yes, Sir.” Stephen sagged.

“Eat, sleep.” John shook his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John went home to Sherlock, and had to drag him away from some experiment on pain of calling Mycroft to approve sedatives. At least he was feeling better.

John lay staring at the ceiling for a long time. _I really should leave: this was far too dangerous._

_Still, it wasn’t boring._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mea culpe, i typed mark instead of mike. fixed it now, Yes this world's Mike Stamford is a veterans' liaison.


	9. Barbarians at the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember in canon how Greg trumped up a drug bust? (A study in Pink) and that Donovan was questioniing about how long Sherlock had been in daylight? yeah, Boom.

Of course, the next day it all went to hell.

John was trying to get Sherlock to eat a late breakfast–Sherlock being completely absorbed in something with his microscope–when there was the sound of several people coming up the stairs.

“Sherlock?!” the silver-haired man called out as he came in.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?” John stared at the man, who was being followed by his two least favorite people on the force and one more he didn’t know.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Sherlock,” Lestrade frowned at him.

“Busy,” Sherlock muttered, and then stared at the crowd. “What on earth?” His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, George?”

“Greg,” corrected John absently. “Although I would like to know what’s going on myself.”

“Drug bust,” Lestrade lied, looking pointedly at Sherlock. “Since you didn’t answer your phone, we were worried.”

“I’m not on probation anymore,” Sherlock said calmly. “And if you damage anything it’s on your own head.”

John glared back and forth, “Drug bust?”

“The freak is a junkie,” Donovan sneered. “Told you to stay away from him!” She kept looking at Sherlock and moving her hand to her gun.

“He’s got BLOOD in here!” one of the other men shouted, waving the bagged blood from the fridge, and suddenly all of them except Greg had guns out aiming at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring shocked at them.

Greg shouted, “What? Put those down! Are you mad?”

“No,” John growled. “They’re idiots who think they’re vampire hunters.” He raised his voice, “I’m DOCTOR Watson, remember? And the bagged blood is mine, not Sherlock’s.” He waited until he saw people’s eyes move to him, then continued, “Sherlock was attacked by some idiots with blades a few days ago,” he glared at the three of them, “which attracted trouble, as people bleeding all over the place outside a nightclub will.”

“What’s going on?!” Greg was shouting and had his gun out aimed at the three others. “For Christ’s sake, what are you three DOING?”

Sherlock spoke up quietly, “Trying to finish the job the vampire hunters started before, I suppose: murder me because they think I’m a vampire.”

“That’s delusional!” Greg spluttered.

Sherlock shook his head, “After seeing them during the attack the other night, no, I am forced to conclude that the existence of vampires is a FACT–however idiotic it is to presume that I am one.”

John moved over, picked up the blood, and started putting it away, taking one bag out of the unknown officer’s hand. “Vampires are real, Greg, but Sherlock is just a tall, thin, pale man who doesn’t eat enough. Of course, being attacked by would-be murdering vampire hunters didn’t help the pale part, which is why I have transfusion supplies.”

“He’s HUMAN?” the other man–Anderson, John finally remembered his name–whispered, sounding shocked.

Greg snarled, “I will SHOOT you if you don’t drop your damned weapons!”

“You brought them here.” John leaned against the refrigerator and stared at them all, “Why act so shocked? You knew they wanted an excuse; this is premeditated murder.”

Sherlock sat down slowly as the others were putting their guns down on the floor. “No, he thinks they just would have planted drugs on me.”

“We wouldn’t have had to plant any, Sherlock,” Greg said distractedly, still staring at the other three. “What in the HELL is going on?”

“You would have had to plant some, since John and I cleaned the flat out rather thoroughly to avoid a chance of a relapse. I’ve been clean for quite a while, Lestrade; you just pull these stunts to try to punish me for picking your pocket, or things like that. I didn’t imagine you would go this far.”

John used his cane to move the guns further away from the three officers. “So you INTENDED to falsely charge Sherlock with drugs, Greg, but not to murder him? How reassuring.”

“I expected to find something and offer to drop it if he’d answer the damn phone and take the case!”

John said very quietly, as his temper was beginning to get the better of him, “He didn’t answer his phone because it was broken when he was assaulted and we haven’t replaced it, mostly because I haven’t allowed him out of the flat yet.” He started to snarl and pulled himself back with effort, “Of course, you were so concerned it never occurred to you to call me, or stop by and check up on him, or any of that.”

Greg looked guilty at least, “He’s done this before, it was usually–“

“And this time you deliberately chose the officers who obviously hated him, even if you didn’t know why, and let them loose to plant evidence at least. What were you going to do when they DID, Greg? Say ‘Oh, they found something, but I don’t care’?” John looked at Sherlock, who was sitting looking blankly at the police.

“Sherlock, call your brother.”

“Certainly not! Why would I call him?” Sherlock snapped back to himself.

“If the police are willing to try to murder you, you need–”

“We weren’t!” Donovan protested.

Greg snapped at them, “OH? You had guns on him, all three of you! And this is all about some… vampire garbage?”

“They were going to kill me,” Sherlock nodded, “that much was obvious. I just question whether it was because they thought I was a vampire, or simply because they wanted to. Killers usually escalate.” Sherlock shrugged, “And obviously they assumed you wanted them to plant drugs, Greg, based on the way you permit them to act on scene.”

“True,” John nodded. “He lets them behave very badly to you, so he must have expected them to plant evidence, but since he didn’t tell them to he could claim innocence.”

“I didn’t expect them to try to KILL you!”

John shrugged. “Call your brother, Sherlock. When the police are trying to plant evidence on you, and some of them trying to murder you, it’s time to leave town until they can be put on trial.”

The third policeman–the one John didn’t know–pulled a second gun. “You know, if we just shoot them, we can say it went down however we want.”

Greg looked horrified. To her credit, Donovan looked appalled as well, “We don’t kill HUMANS!” Anderson was just standing there with his mouth hanging open looking like a stunned fish.

John swung his cane and knocked the man’s arm up to the ceiling. Sherlock threw a mug of something–John didn’t much care what–at him, hitting him squarely in the forehead.

After a moments stunned shock, Greg threw himself on the fellow and cuffed his arms behind his back.

Donovan had her hands up in the air, looking back and forth between Sherlock and John, “I swear, I’ve never attacked a human.”

Sherlock just looked at her, “Until now, perhaps, Sergeant Donovan. Perhaps. However, I don’t credit your ability to tell the difference.”

Sherlock walked out of the room with John’s phone.

“You know, I was pretty upset at Sherlock for behaving like such a self-absorbed prick, but you lot…” John forced himself to count backwards from one hundred; he’d gotten to twenty-five when Sherlock came back in. “MI5 will be here in a few minutes to secure the flat. We have to pack.” Sherlock sounded tense.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I know you dislike calling him but–“

Anderson stared at them, “Who the hell is the freak’s BROTHER?”

Greg snapped at him to shut up and then said, “Some kind of bureaucrat working in the government.”

“My brother works with secure information for the government, much as I do in solving crimes–except he does it officially. Someone trying to plant evidence on me, or murder me, is therefore potentially a threat to national security–depending on why they’re doing it,” Sherlock said tiredly. He went into his room to pack.

“You know, Sherlock actually LIKED you, Greg. He trusted you.” John stared at him. “He told me all about how you helped him to get off drugs, and gave him a chance on cases. I was willing to overlook the way you let people treat him because of that, as well as the fact that he can be a royal pain in the arse–but this?”

“It was just supposed to let us find some of the evidence he hadn’t handed over, and pressure him to work on this case!” Greg pleaded, “Some maniac is sending us clues and addressing them to Sherlock, threatening to blow people up if he doesn’t solve the case!”

“Too bad you didn’t ask him, then,” John said coldly. “I said the same thing to him, but all he did was chase after me and get attacked by idiot vampire hunters–he didn’t attack me or try to get me killed. I suggest you take these… these…” John carefully flexed his hands on his cane, thankful for the daylight through the windows; otherwise, he would have snapped it half by now.

Sherlock came out with a bag and John swore, “Sherlock! That’s too heavy!”

“I’m using my good arm…”

“Set it down while I show the legirupa out.”

Sherlock blinked at him, “I didn’t know you knew Latin.”

John shrugged, “I know how to swear in it, anyway.”

Greg moved toward Sherlock and John spun and punched him. Greg went down hard and curled up on the floor. Anderson and Donovan ran over to check on him. John hauled him to his feet.

“Get that handcuffed murdering scoundrel and get outside–and take your fake evidence with you–before I throw you down the stairs.” John could feel the growl in his Voice and they scrambled to obey.

Sherlock just sat, staring blankly at a wall. “I never imagined… I knew they hated me…”

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John said carefully, trying not to influence him. “I can’t explain right now, but… Most vampire hunters are people who lost loved ones, or saw a vampire attack like the one that happened… They hurt, and they’re scared. A few are in it for kicks, because it’s a murder that they can commit without killing anyone that matters–those are the really bad ones, because it’s no different than killing a foreigner because their skin color is different.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Prejudices against foreigners, like the belief that all Muslims are a threat so it’s justified to attack them–for safety?”

John nodded. “And people have prejudices in their head about what the ‘other’–the ‘monster’–looks like.” John sat down next to Sherlock and took his hand. “Meanwhile, there are– Not all vampires are like the rabble that attacked you; otherwise, surely you realize that it couldn’t be hushed up?”

Sherlock blinked a lot. “No, of course not. If vampires were roaming the streets in packs like that, the cover-up would be insane.” He had an intense look on his face suddenly.

“Exactly. There are probably more, percentage wise, vampire problems than human, but they need to drink blood, and when they’re young… well, they lose control. The first two that showed up? Following your blood?” Sherlock nodded. “I don’t know what they were like. I killed the one because I HAD to, but maybe if they hadn’t been starving they would have been alright.” John shook his head, “A cornered or hungry predator isn’t safe.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful, “The second group, the gang…”

“Pack, gang, yes. Those were… I would have hunted and killed them on principal–they were a problem–but I don’t know if the first two were. Do you see the difference?”

“And one assumes that the older ones with more control are not causing issues.” He raised an eyebrow at John.

“Either they are not problems–living quietly somewhere that they can hide–or they are the VERY bad problems, because they can cover it up,” John nodded.

“Like successful serial killers,” Sherlock mused, looking intrigued.

“Yes. THOSE vampires? I’d cheerfully let vampire hunters in the force after them–it’s why I was glad the MET had some, but…”

“But they’re idiots,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yup.”

“I assume if they ran across a real problem, unlike that pack? That they would not even recognize them?”

“Probably not,” John sighed. “I mean, look, I thought you were a vampire, at first…”

“Really?” He sounded dubious.

“Yes, really,” John grinned. “But the thing is? IF you were a vampire, there’s no evidence you were one of the ones causing PROBLEMS….”

Sherlock looked speculative at him, “So you would have just kept an eye on me?”

“If I was hunting for vampire problems, I would have just kept an eye on you and then decided you were probably a vampire that was trying to catch bad vampires.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinked. “But Donovan and company didn’t come to that conclusion.”

“Because they’re bigots who think every vampire needs to die, even if they aren’t causing trouble.”

Sherlock was starting to ask something when a lot of people started up the stairs and came in. There was a flurry of ID–MI5–then the men tried to escort them both out.

John held up a hand, “I have people who are expecting me to contact them, and appointments that if I don’t deal with in person they’ll assume the worst. Can someone meet me tonight? Or, better yet, tomorrow?”

“John?” Sherlock sounded concerned. “Is it safe?”

“It’s never safe, Sherlock,” he grinned at him. “What’s the fun in that?”

Sherlock smiled back, a trace of his usual mood breaking through, “True.” He turned to the others, “Can you come get him tomorrow afternoon?”

They reluctantly agreed and went out, taking Sherlock, his luggage, and his violin.

John turned to the skull, “Just us two bachelors left, I suppose.” He made a mental note to take the skull, since Sherlock was so fond of it, packed up the bagged blood, and left the flat. He had an appointment, after all.


	10. Kith and Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's sister Harry, combat, and unpleasantness  
> (at least Sherlock didn't throw him out a window?)

John arrived at Harry’s pub to find that his thrall was there, nervously sitting in a corner, eyes darting from face to face.

“Hello Stephen.” John sighed, “Can you TRY to be less obvious?”

“I’m sorry.” his voice was shaking.

“No one is going to harm you here: this is my sister’s pub.”

“Indeed, and long overdue for you to have a thrall again,” Harry’s warm chuckle announced her presence ahead of her.

John looked over and smiled. She was mostly sober, still, so early in the evening.

“This is Stephen. He’s one of the hunters of this city.”

Harry blinked at him and laughed hesitantly, “Oh, funny, you…” she stared at him and looked at the twitching  thrall, “You’re not making a sport of me then?”

“No. If I’m to stay for a time, I want an ear in these young fools who go hunting vampires and attack the mortal I’m staying with.”

She sniffed, “Staying with a human who’s not your thrall? It’s unnatural that is. Nothing good comes of it.”

John smiled and ruffled her hair, “Indeed. No good has come of it, save that I find some reason to see another sunset for a while longer.”

She took his hand and tasted his wrist with her tongue, in the old way, “For that, then I’ll hold my peace on it– I’d not be the last of our brood.”

“I wanted you to know my thrall, if he needs sanctuary.”

“None of mine will harm him here.” She nodded.

“Stephen? This is my sister, and her house. You will permit no harm to come to her, and if you hear or see of any danger to her you will warn her at the least, is that clear?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I have to go deal with a few things, Harry. I’ll need to feed him and then I’ll need to hunt.”

“Hunt?! You’re in my house! Don’t insult me!” Harry sat up indignantly.

“Ah? And any of your herd are sober?”

She frowned, “Not likely.”

“I have things to be about, I’ll save your hospitality for a night I can be drunk.” John rolled his eyes.

Stephen tried to edge backwards but Harry caught his arm, “Your thrall needs manners.”

John just shook his head and bit his wrist, holding it to his lips, “Drink.” He did and when John pulled his wrist away and licked the wound closed, his eyes were dark– coming from a pub anyone would attribute it to drink.

“Put him in a cab home, will you?” He kissed Harry gently on the cheek.

“Aye.  Try to actually visit will you?”

~

It was a simple thing to find food, as crowded as London was. From there he went back to the flat, and started packing up a few things for Sherlock–he’d already packed himself after all. John was debating whether to go to stay with Sherlock or not, when a scream from downstairs snapped his reverie.

He didn’t stop to think, just grabbed his cane and went down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Mrs. Hudson? Are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine.” Her voice shook.  John extended his senses, closing his eyes and scenting fear, and a small amount of blood…and men… several of them.

“Oh, alright… I thought I heard something.” John called back in casually and moved away from the door.

He waited: still, unbreathing, unblinking.  If anyone wanted to know how vampires earned the reputation for invisibility it would have been simple enough to show them.  The human body moves, breathes; the human eye watches for these subtle signals and when they are absent fails to see.

A man exited the flat and went out to the car. He didn’t see the figure standing in the shadows of the stairs but John saw a glimpse into the flat: two other men– one of them holding a gun– and his landlady somewhat bound and quite terrified.  The man came back with a small case and knocked in a certain way before opening the door to come in.

The other man and the man with the gun were relaxed; after all, their compatriot wouldn’t have given the signal if there was a dangerous man waiting just outside…

When the door opened John moved with speed.

The man with the gun  had a broken arm before he felt the pain, the man by the window went down with a single blow to the head–John didn’t think he’d killed him; and then he turned and was standing in front of the man who’d so graciously allowed him entrance.

“One chance.” John said; it was only polite after all.

He scrambled for his gun, but didn’t drop the case– _interesting_.  A cry from Mrs. Hudson made John react by grabbing the case and spinning the man around as a shield.  The bullet took the man below his heart, as it was aimed at John, the shorter man. The man with the gun had switched to his off hand, and was re-centering–wasting no time with regret or horror at hitting his own.

John smiled.  Talented assassins were a rarity.

“It is such a pleasure to deal with a professional…” John said smiling.

He fired again, and John swung the wounded man up as a shield, while diving to the floor. The assassin was good; the bullet grazed him anyway, tainted with the blood of his human shield. John took the briefcase from the limp hand of his shield and threw it: it hit him, not well but well enough–the gun flew from his hand.

John moved and the assassin dove for his gun. John kicked him in the ribs, which didn’t stop him but did cause him to miss his grab at it. John lunged and got the man’s broken arm.

“Now, if you try anything, or I lose my temper, a broken arm can shatter beyond any hope,” John spoke softly into the assassin’s ear, “but you’re ambidextrous, so you decide.”

The assassin slowly forced himself to relax.

“Mrs. Hudson? If you can manage, the dying man there had a pair of handcuffs in his pocket I think, could you bring them?”

She mostly made a weak noise, but sounded like she might be trying to move. The assassin spoke in a resigned tone, “I have a pair.”

“Do you now? That’s polite.” John fished them out of his pocket. And locked his broken arm to his opposite ankle.  The assassin cursed vehemently.

Mrs. Hudson shakily handed John another set of handcuffs. “Thank you. Go sit down and I’ll get you tended to.”

He dragged the assassin over and locked his ankle to the top of the radiator– it would take a truly skilled acrobat and thief to get out of that. John stood up and looked around thoughtfully.

The man who had been his shield was dead, the other man though still breathed. “Is your dormant companion by the window worth anything?”  The assassin didn’t answer. 

John went over to Mrs. Hudson. “Here now, let me have a look.”  She’d been hurt, badly hurt, but nothing the modern medicine couldn’t fix. John nodded, “Sleep.” He gave it the barest nudge and she slumped over on the couch.

He picked up the phone and dialed Walsingham’s number.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” his voice was puzzled.

“I am afraid not.” John glanced around the room, “There was an incident.”

“John Watson? Is–”

“Mrs. Hudson will need an ambulance.” John opened the briefcase and found vials, and needles, and some small electronic device that he didn’t know. “Three men broke in and hurt her while I was out. They have a number of drugs with them, and something I don’t recognize.”

“I’ll have a team there in minutes.”

“I’m afraid one of them is dead, and the other may be by then.  One of them is a very competent assassin, though.” John idly watched the man who was obviously listening. “I doubt anyone would send him to deal with our landlady, so I assume they were after Sherlock or myself– he is still safely tucked away, isn’t he?”

The assassin closed his eyes and let his head hit the floor– _Sherlock, then._

“Yes…” Mycroft sounded dubious.

John sighed, “Suspicions again, Walsingham? What is it this time?”

“Nothing urgent.” He said as though he’d made a decision. “My people are on their way.”

John hung up. “Now… we have a few minutes to talk…”

“I’m not talking.”

John walked over and picked the unconscious one up from the floor. He pulled his head back and looked him over critically– the cracked skull would need a great deal of work, and there was no certainty he was worth the effort. “I did ask… I am asking for the last time; is he of any value?”

“He’s just a guard…” the assassin said slowly, watching him from his awkward position on the floor, “Why?”

John sank his fangs into the man’s throat and drank his fill.  When he was done he dragged him over to the pool of blood from the other man, and dropped him into it. He took one of the knives and cut the man’s femoral artery– what remained of his blood flowed out in weak pulses.

John had to admit he was impressed: the assassin had gasped in horror and then watched silently, eyes wide.

John settled himself down facing the assassin. “Now, we are going to talk… and then you are going to forget that we had this conversation…

*

There was one certainty in all the world.  The reports and the paperwork always took longer than the incident.  When the assassin–and the bodies– had been taken away, and Mrs. Hudson entrusted to proper care, John was STILL trying to write up some approximation of a report.

Eventually he was done, and then one of the minions handed him a phone.  He sighed and took it, “Yes, Walsingham?”

“John?” Sherlock’s voice.

“Sherlock! Oh, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine, John, obviously!” Sherlock sounded irritated– which John counted as a good sign for his recovery. “Are YOU alright?”

“Well, I did ruin one of my favorite jumpers,” he said thoughtfully, looking down at the blood, “unless you know a cleaner that’s VERY good at getting blood stains out of wool?”

Sherlock recited three, “–and get it there as soon as they open in the morning, and don’t let it get worked in.”

John laughed, “Oh... Oh I might have figured you would know that! I’m fine then, my jumper is saved!” he could hardly stop laughing– he heard Mycroft’s breathing change on the line; he was annoyed at the direction of the conversation, John supposed.

“How is Mrs. Hudson?”

“They hurt her, but she wasn’t much damaged, if you understand… I think she’ll need a counselor more than a doctor.”

Sherlock hummed in that way he had. “Do you have any idea why?”

 _Yes_. “No, but the way the conscious one reacted when I asked your brother if you were still safely tucked away  says they were after you…” John thought about recent events, “They weren’t hunters though.  They were after a human, not a vampire.”

“Oh? Are you sure?”

“All they had were guns– and not many of those– and small knives. One of them had gone out for drugs and electronics… that doesn’t sound like a hunter to me.” John shrugged.  

After a short pause he continued, “I’m quite certain your brother must be listening, it’s an occupational hazard with spymasters, and so let me add this: Assassins are usually hired.  If they were hired, then either their employer doesn’t know about vampires, doesn’t think you are a vampire, or for some reason he didn’t tell them.”

“My brother is making faces,” Sherlock sounded delighted.

John sighed in a fond fashion, “And I would know you were the YOUNGER sibling by that tone of voice alone.”

Sherlock huffed, and he thought he heard Mycroft chuckle.

“I was packing a bag of your things… I had just started, but I can send it to you in not long.”

“Please come.”

“Sherlock…” John sighed and pinched his nose. _Avoiding him would help the influence pass more quickly…_ “I think you need to rest, and heal, and you will do that better if I stay in London and deal with things.”

He tried a different tactic. “I’m bored and you could help with the studies.”

 _You need to grow up a bit._ “Yes, well, you can help your brother study vampires and interrogate an assassin. I have some arrangements to make here in London.” John relented just slightly, “It probably won’t take me that long, and you can come back to London soon anyway.”

“Are you certain you’re alright?”

“I’m mostly tired,” he lied. “Get some rest yourself, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft says he’ll have guards on the flat.  You should stay there– if you won’t come here– it’s safer.”

“I think I shall. Good NIGHT, Sherlock.”

He gathered Sherlock’s things and handed them off to one of the minions, and then firmly escorted them out the door.  They would be encamped downstairs for some time, going over evidence and he had no doubt that the flat had been bugged while he was busy with the interminable paperwork.

 _Nothing to see, Walsingham_ , he thought to himself as he  tidied up and finally lay down to sleep in his bed– or rather to rest, since a full meal and a great deal of information were occupying him.

Which is why he was awake to hear a window slide open, and the faintest of scuffs as a foot landed gently on the floor in Sherlock’s room.

 


	11. Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful with your questions, you might get an answer.

The assassin had talked, of course.  Being confronted with the reality of vampires, when he had never even imagined such a thing did a great deal to loosen his tongue.  They were American and had been asked to acquire Sherlock Holmes. The assassin truthfully wasn’t certain if the request had come through official channels, or was being done as a favor, or was a private matter that simply involved his higher-ups. It was all eminently deniable, however.

Some things never changed.

The window sliding open in Sherlock’s room scarcely got his attention– it was a usual noise.  The soft, oh so very soft, scuff of a foot on the floor in Sherlock’s room, however, caused him some pause.

Sherlock wasn’t home.  Could he have slipped away from his brother and come home secretly? Yes, John had to admit that was the likeliest answer… he lay on his bed and breathed deeply and evenly.

He listened:  movement, by someone who knew how to move very silently.  It was not Sherlock: Sherlock was simply not this good. He listened to the person moving items in Sherlock’s room, but he couldn’t tell what they were doing.  He decided on an experiment: he whimpered quietly, low and in the back of his throat.

The intruder froze.

Vampire, then- it was unlikely anything else could have heard him.

John turned in bed and feigned to kick out at a foe. The intruder began stealthily moving again.  John mimed the nightmares of a mortal recently returned from war and eventually fell silent once again, breathing just a bit more heavily than before.  He waited. The intruder left through the window he had entered by.

_Interesting._

He forced himself awake in the morning, and went through the process of making tea; it gave him time to think.  The flat was likely bugged by Walsingham– even if not for his sake then because of the assassin– and he had no way of being certain what the vampire had done in Sherlock’s room. Best then to simply be the very mortal– and very boring– John Watson while at home.  He sipped his tea and read the news. Eventually, after he thought that Walsingham’s men likely had stopped paying attention, he got up and walked out; he was darkly amused when he was nearly a block away before the cameras started frantically tracking him. Watchmen are so very predictable: bore them to tears and they stop paying attention.

His meanderings must have looked ordinary enough, but in truth he was watching for places that one could hide from daylight. The fact that he was ALSO unquestionably driving his watchers to drink was only a bonus.  When the dark car caught up with him as he sat in a park feeding ducks, he was not surprised: when Anthea got out and came to join him on the park bench, he was.

“My lady, an unexpected honor… would you care to feed the ducks?”

“You never struck me as the ‘sitting on a bench feeding ducks’ sort.”

“And what sort is that?” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Old.”

“Ah, well, forgive an old war veteran his hobbies, then.”

“You aren’t that old.” She laughed.

“I am, in fact, older than I look.” He smiled at the understatement, “which I am told explains my penchant for ducks and shady park benches.”

“He’d like you to come out and talk to us.”

“How are they?”

“Tense.” She sighed, “But that’s not unusual with those two.  Mycroft adores his brother but they don’t get along.”

“And there is the song of the ages,” he smiled.

“What?”

He tilted his head, “The more things change, the more they stay the same?  It’s an old story?  I’ve heard that a lot?”

“You have an odd way of putting things sometimes.”

“It comes of having an odd family, odd reading habits, and an odd lifestyle.” He tossed the last of the vegetables at the ducks. “Wonderful to have about, ducks and geese.” He said, remembering old fortifications, “Swans are better.”

“For defense?” she asked, he nodded.

“After you.”

They stopped by the flat and he picked up his bag.  He made a point of collecting the skull for Sherlock. The drive took longer than he would have expected.

“I thought you might refuse to come, after everything.” Anthea said finally.

“Curiosity may yet kill me,” he agreed.

They arrived at someplace almost, but not entirely like a military base: the barbed wire, and heavy gates, and armed guards, all speaking to the danger of entering.  John smiled faintly; it would be all too easy to get in, or out, after dark.

“I trust you know this isn’t enough?”

“I know.” Anthea’s lips pressed together and her knuckles turned white.

John raised an eyebrow.  He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, “You already proved you have little enough to fear, although I do wish you would study the sword.”

“I’ve begun to.”

They went below ground, but by now the sun was setting in any case. John’s senses sharpened. _Blood, bile, piss… the stench of fear and pain…_ and then suddenly a scent of warm mortal life and violin rosin.

“John!” Sherlock came striding up, “and you brought my friend!” as he noticed the skull.

“Of course,” John smiled up at him, “I could scarcely abandon him.”

“I’ll show you to your room, but then we need to talk.”

“I can stay the night, I suppose, but nothing longer than that.”

“It’s gotten complicated, John.”

“We have vampires and assassins and I brought you your skull, but NOW it’s gotten complicated?”

Anthea giggled briefly and pressed her hand to her mouth, “Sorry.”

John smiled at her and apologized, “I shall return; assuming Sherlock can be convinced to explain the issue.”

Sherlock took him off to a rather military looking room with two stacked beds– John thought wistfully about barracks of time gone by; this was much nicer.

“We’ve made a lot of discoveries about Vampires,” Sherlock looked intent in that delighted way he had. “It does indeed seem to be sonics, and the scientists think we can block it!”

John blinked several times, “Why, that’s very good news!”

“AND you were quite right: vampires don’t bleed much if at all, and they don’t bruise!”

“I never said they didn’t bruise: I wasn’t certain about that.  So they don’t?”

“No, they don’t,” Sherlock shook his head and his hair went every which way. “AND we’ve been studying their healing– how much blood it takes to recover from various injuries.”

“I’m… not surprised, but I hope you’ll be done soon?” John frowned.

“No…” Sherlock looked puzzled at him, “why?”

“I’m not comfortable with torture.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. “Oh… Oh, yes… you said… they’re not ALL problems…?”

“As I said; they’re people, Sherlock.” John finished putting his things in one of the drawers and sat on the bed. “A lot of them deserve to be shot– or beheaded in this case– but tortured?”

Sherlock began to look unhappy, “I was just happy about how much we were learning…”

“And you didn’t think out what it meant other than lab results.”

Sherlock winced, his expression shutting down, and he rubbed at his arm. “I didn’t think of them as people…”

“Which is why I tried to talk to you about that before.”

“I’m not sure I have any ability to put a stop to it at this point.”

“Then take me down and I’ll try.”

“You have to talk to Mycroft first.” Sherlock frowned, “it’s… gotten more complicated.”

“So you said, will you explain?”

“I’d rather let Mycroft do it…”

John raised an eyebrow, “In that case I suggest we go NOW: it must be utterly  fantastical for you to defer to your brother.”

They were shown into a military styled conference room: it smelled of stale coffee and papers and re-circulated air. Mycroft was standing, looking at him with an air of puzzlement.

“Before anything else, Doctor Watson, those are yours.” He nodded at a file sitting on the table.

John sat down to have a look: New identification, a passport, school records… “I’m impressed Walsingham, this looks quite thorough.”

“It is.” He nodded, “Combined with the actual military records we found it is unassailable.  It simply doesn’t explain how you got into the military without being able to prove your identity.”

John smiled, “I’m sure you shall have great fun trying to figure it out.”

Mycroft, much to John’s surprise looked pained and then glanced over at Sherlock. “Yes, well… probably not.  In any event I am sure you knew we bugged the flat?”

“I expected it.”

“Someone intruded into Sherlock’s room last night.”

John raised an eyebrow, “Someone…? Seriously? Someone got into the flat?”

“Yes, and it was a vampire.”

John sat back, “You’re certain?”

“Yes.  Between the heat sensors and the microphones we had: he wasn’t warm enough, and he wasn’t breathing.”

“Warm enough can be fooled,” John said with a frown, “the not breathing, though… What did he do?”

“Searched the room rather thoroughly and planted a few small tracers.  We tried to track him, but he seemed to know how to evade the cameras, and most of the CCTV cameras are not night vision.”

“Odd that he wouldn’t attack me,” John noted. “He could be just trying to find out what was going on...”

“Possible, but a vampire verifiably broke into the flat, which makes it somewhat less than secure.” Mycroft said firmly.

Sherlock bit his lip. “I don’t want to move, Mycroft.”

“It’s not secure–”

John cleared his throat. “THIS facility isn’t secure.  There is nothing approximating a house, much less a flat, in down town London that would be secure against a competent older vampire.” He shrugged, “Most places are secure against the youngsters.”

“So you agree with Anthea, then?” Mycroft was looking at him with those oh so sharp eyes, and something strange was going on…

“Yes, Walsingham. In fact if you ask her she can explain I said that on my way in.” John sighed, “Now about the prisoners.”

He blinked, startled, “What about the prisoners?”

“Do you have a plan for what more you need, or expect, to get from them?”

“No. We had the initial questions, of course, but now it’s simply–”

 _Sigh_. “Now it’s simply pretending that they should suffer unending torment because your torturers are intrigued by something they can’t kill quite so easily.”

“They are valuable research subjects,” Mycroft frowned, “Which you helped to procure.”

“WHO I helped to procure.” John nodded, “They are gutter dregs of people, but they are still people.”

“Are they?” Mycroft’s frown deepened.

“Certainly.  They were human once– likely terrible humans, but nonetheless– and they still think– as much as anyone does–and feel.” John sat back. “There is also another factor, which I have noticed spymasters often forget.”

“And what might that be?”

“That you need to be careful of your torturers, and your spymasters, lest they lose whatever humanity THEY possess.” John leveled a steady gaze at Mycroft and didn’t look aside or lower his eyes, “As I said, Walsingham; witch-hunts– and the insistence that some people deserve neither mercy, nor justice– are all too easily ignited.”

Mycroft’s too sharp gaze held his for an impressive length of time before he looked away, “Yes, that problem I am aware of…”

“Kill them.” John said bluntly, “That’s a valid study, how to kill them quickly and efficiently– Kill them and be done with it.”

Mycroft looked down at the table and drummed his fingers: Sherlock looked perplexed and concerned at him, as though it was a tell for some problem.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly, “I need to speak to Doctor Watson alone for a moment.”

“I don’t want you bullying him, Mycroft!”

“He seems resistant to bullying.” Mycroft said drily.

Sherlock looked worried at him, “If my brother gives you any trouble–”

“Then I will sit here and sip my tea until he stops, Sherlock,” John smiled faintly. “Go see if you can come up with any ACTUAL studies that need to be done before they are killed, alright?”

Sherlock frowned and glanced between the two of them, but eventually left.

“So what suspicions dance in your mind today, Walsingham?” John asked. “You’ve been watching me oddly since I arrived, and your tone when I called was off.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and got up, walking over to the table against the wall that held the coffee pot and  remnants of  food: he set his umbrella down on it and then he pulled out a small pistol and put it down, along with a well concealed dagger– he turned and came back to his seat.

“I have a question– I would call it a simple one, but I suspect it is not– and you have a remarkable facility for, as you put it, sitting and drinking tea until I stop threatening you.”

John smiled faintly, “Which bothers you more: not getting the answers, or the fact that you can’t frighten me?”

Mycroft pinched his nose and sighed, “Let’s call it a tie.”

“So? Your question?”

Mycroft  very deliberately placed his hands down on the table in front of him and pressed them down– stilling any muscle tremors that might give away his nerves–“One question: What are you?”

 


	12. Tea for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation in private...

“An interesting question, Walsingham; what makes you ask that?”

“Do you want a list?”

“I admit to curiosity.”

“All of the things that didn’t add up in the first place, of course.” Mycroft was sitting very still, watching him with those too sharp eyes. “I suppose you must realize that I had come to the conclusion you were a Hunter.”

“It had crossed my mind, yes.”

“However, there were details that didn’t make sense.”

“Such as?”

“Your breathing is too regular; it increased AFTER the fencing match– when you noticed mine.”

John smiled at him, “Oh very good, Walsingham; I’d thought you had missed that.”

Mycroft looked startled. “Hmm… yes, well… I won’t bore you with all the myriad other small things that don’t make sense–”

“At some point I would like to hear them, but do go on.”

“The one thing I couldn’t ignore, or even leave as a question,” Mycroft looked down at his hands, “I could believe a doctor had mistaken how severe Sherlock’s injuries were– I wanted to believe it– but when we got him here he refused to let a doctor look at him.”

“Not unusual from what I recall.” John said, but he began to see the problem. “He let you help?”

“He finally relented, yes, and let me help him change the bandages.” Mycroft looked up very tiredly, “He doesn’t seem able to see anything unusual, but no matter how much the doctor misjudged his injuries it’s been less than a week, and there is no sign his arm was ever wounded at all.”

“Hmm.” John sighed, “Do I take it this room is one of the few that isn’t monitored?”

“Correct. If you killed me now you would have a few minutes–”

“If I wanted you dead, you could easily have died by accident at the fencing academy.”

“John, if that’s your name,” He shook his head, “I am unarmed and–”

“I could also have let the man shoot you at the warehouse.”

“Yes… yes you could.” He admitted.

“Mycroft Holmes,” John smiled politely at him, “Let me ask YOU a question… are you certain you want the answer?”

“What?”

“Right now you have suspicions; whatever I say in answer you will then have to decide if you believe me,” Mycroft  looked thoughtful and nodded, “and what to do with the answer I give you.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully, “True. I tried to simply come to my own conclusions, but the data doesn’t support ANY of the answers.”

“No? Usually the problem is people have a perfectly good answer, but they don’t like it– what evidence is giving you problems?”

“I would think you were a vampire, except for the following: you routinely go out in daylight, you eat, you drink tea–rather a lot of tea– you have yet to show any sign of losing control, you remained calm in a battle scene with blood everywhere–twice– you haven’t made any attempt to make me forget my questions, you gave us valuable and truthful information, you put up with my brother, you–”

John laughed and held up a hand. “I find it incredibly amusing that ‘putting up with Sherlock’ is in that list.”

“My brother has a gift for aggravating people.”

“True; and he practices it diligently.” John couldn’t help but smirk, and Mycroft smiled tiredly back at him.

“So what are you, and how did my brother’s arm heal in days without even so much as a scar.”

John sat back, “I will answer you, Walsingham, but I can almost guarantee you will not like the answers– and some of it I must insist goes no further than you.”

He glanced at the sideboard, “I put my weapons aside for a reason.”

John sighed, “In reverse then… What you have NOT apparently discovered is that vampire blood can heal.”

“…what?” Mycroft didn’t sound disbelieving, he sharpened attentively.

“Vampires keep human–mostly– servants, sometimes for a very long time.  They are fed vampire blood and gain some measure of the vampiric abilities–including healing. Feed a human vampire blood and they can recover from any wound, even a sword slash that cut to the bone.”

Mycroft sat back staring with his eyes wide and not looking at anything in the room. “A soldier that could heal any wound, and walk in daylight?” he looked sharply at John, “like you?”

John refrained from patting him on the head, “It would fit the facts, wouldn’t it? A vampire’s thrall– that’s what they are called– can walk in daylight, eat, drink, and in many ways be as human as they ever were, but–”

Mycroft was murmuring and John’s more than human hearing caught the problem immediately.

“Stop.” He said firmly, “Before you  begin your grand plans, Spymaster, some facts:” John held up a finger, “a thrall is an addict– the blood is addictive in the extreme,” John held up a second finger, “every time you are given the blood of a specific vampire you become more closely tied to that vampire,” a third finger followed by slowly extending and spreading the fingers of both hands, “ and finally–thralls do not produce their own vampire healing blood and must continually be fed from the source, which would require either an enormous population of captive vampires, the creation of new ones, or  the assumption that your magical soldiers belong to a vampire.” John closed his hands.

“I… begin to understand the complications.” Mycroft said with a throat gone a bit dry, and took a sip of his tea.

“I’ve barely started.”

“What more do I need to know?”

“Misjudge the injury and there is a chance that your thrall will become a vampire.”

“Drinking the blood is how a vampire… becomes a vampire?”

“To be assured of it is more complex than that, but… it’s a chance.”

“Sherlock?”

“Was never in danger.” John sighed and looked moodily down into his cup, “I shouldn’t have done it, but to lose such talent… and truthfully I didn’t think he would survive without his music.” He looked up, “Could I trouble you for another cup of tea?”

Mycroft stared at the weapons lying next to the tea service. “You aren’t concerned?”

“No. Retrieve your weapons if it makes you feel better.”

Mycroft retrieved his belongings and set a cup of tea down in front of John before returning to his seat. “For a moment I thought you might be a thrall, the way you described it, but you aren’t.”

“I suppose I could be, but no.” he looked curiously at him, “What gave it away?”

“When you spoke of the risks of being a thrall there was nothing personal to it, you were speaking about ‘other’ not yourself.”

John smiled, “I met the real Walsingham you know; you are far more clever.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, and John could see how very much he wanted to deny it, but then he opened them again, “It doesn’t make sense for you to be a vampire.”

“Fiction has to make sense, not reality: I am.”

“Daylight…?”

“Sherlock put it in a way that makes the most sense: drug tolerances.  As a vampire ages– and I suspect with something akin to practice– they can tolerate more exposure.” John sipped his tea.

Mycroft waved at the tea cup, “You drink TEA!”

“I prefer it to coffee,” John raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t sustain me, per se, but I enjoy it and I like the ritual of it.”

“You’ve been in places where blood was shed…”

“I’m no child, nor a starveling,” John  shook his head, “I was sadden by the waste of it, but do you  start grubbing in the dirt if someone drops a fine cut of beef?” He paused, “Even I would lose control if I let myself become too hungry, Walsingham– as a man starved in a cell will eat things he would have abhorred.  Starving or cornered men are the most dangerous.”

“I didn’t want to corner you, it’s why I put my weapons aside…”

“It’s after dark, Walsingham, I could rip your throat out before you swung your blade, and that little toy gun is no concern to me,” he smiled, “Anthea’s though… she is a very good shot and carries a heavier pistol– that would hurt.”

He inhaled and the smell of fear increased, “She has no idea–”

“I have no inclination to harm her, and I didn’t think she did.” John cocked his head, “Or do you think I tried to get her to take up the sword as a sport? I didn’t live this long by taking such chances.”

“How…” Mycroft looked at nothing for a moment, “You spend hours in daylight.”

“Which increases my need for blood, but yes, I do if I must.”

“The vampire that entered the flat is that a… friend?”

“Not that I know of. I heard someone enter, I made a noise too quiet for human ears and they reacted– so I knew WHAT it was.” He smiled, “I don’t know WHO… it’s possible I know them, but unlikely– I haven’t been home since Queen Victoria’s reign.”

Mycroft blinked at that. “So England is home?”

“I took my first breath in these Isles.” He waved a hand, “As I said, I came home to die… I was so very tired.”

“You… actually…” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Sherlock was that intriguing?”

“Novel,” John looked off at memories and ages gone, “Something new, by God, and so very clever: if he can just learn a few manners and develop a bit of self-preservation–”

Mycroft barked a laugh, “We tried; but I’ll wish you good luck on that.”

“You’re a marvel, too, Walsingham, but… far more predictable.”

“I try not to be predictable.”

“You HAVE to be in some sense: you are the Queen’s spymaster, and you have duties to fulfill.” He shrugged.

“You…” He took a deep breath, “Anthea says the security here is insufficient.”

“It is; if an elder wanted in, or out. You are unlikely to attract one’s attention as long as you don’t study too many vampires, for too long– we have long memories and an understandable concern about people knowing too much.”

“We…” Mycroft sighed, “Should I ask how old you are?”

“No,” John looked amused, “you shouldn’t.”

“How old are you?”

“As I told another; old enough to walk in daylight for hours.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him. “Old enough to have been in England in Victoria’s reign, and before that to have met Walsingham?”

“As I said.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are infuriating?” Mycroft said sitting back with a huff.

“My sire said so often, before he met his end.” John couldn’t help but grin. “He tried to threaten and bully as well– I didn’t have tea to sip, then, but I employed a similar tactic.”

“You intend no harm to my brother?”

“Certainly not.” John snorted.

“You… don’t want to make him… one of you?”

John winced, “I have no intentions of siring another child, ever.”

Mycroft seemed to recognize a topic to avoid and changed the subject, “No plans against the Crown, or Britain?”

“NO, Walsingham.” John chuckled.

“Then in as much as I can, I will try not to trouble you.”

“You don’t trouble me, remember?”

“Grant me a few illusions of authority, shall you?”

“Certainly.” John nodded solemnly, “I thank you for your forbearance and mercy.”

Mycroft frowned. “Your… sire?” he questioned whether he had the term right and John nodded, “Must have been a saint.”

John smirked, “When Christianity came, he often said he should loan me out to help them practice the virtues, yes.”

Mycroft’s eyes went very wide.

“So, shall we find out what Sherlock has been up to? It’s been very quiet and I feel about this much as a mother feels about quiet when she has three boys all under the age to apprentice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> statements by the characters are neither guaranteed to be honest, nor accurate... but they might be.


End file.
